N  PRISON 

1  AND  OUT 


« — .   i,  ,11 ..      ^  .  v     *  ;>•»-'-' "I 

PEOPLES   •:^>v--^ 


• 


/5^S 


In  Prison  and  Out. 


BY 

HE  SB  A   STRETTON, 

"Max  Kramer"  "Nelly's  Dark  Days,"  "  Bede't 
Charity"  "Alone  in  London"  &•<•.,&¥. 


NEW   YORK: 

THE     AMERICAN     NEWS     COMPANY 
39  AND  41  CHAMBERS  STREET. 


ft  is  my  wish  that  Messrs.  DODV,  MEAD,  &* 
COMPANY  alone  should  publish  this  story  in  the 
United  States;  and  I  appeal  to  the  generosity  and 
courtesy  of  other  publishers  to  allow  me  to  gain  some 
benefit  from  my  work  on  the  American,  as  well  at 
the  English,  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

HESBA  STRETTOM 


2132879 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  L 

TO  BEG  I  AM  ASHAMED     . 


CHAPTER  II. 
A  BOY'S  SENTENCE ±o 

CHAPTER  IIL 
THE  WEDDING-RING  IN  PAWN 3» 

CHAPTER  IV. 
OLD  EUCLID'S  HOARD 46 

CHAPTER  V. 
LESSONS  IN  PRISON 61 

CHAPTER  VI. 
NOT  GOD'S  WILL? 70 

CHAPTER  VIL 
BESS  BEGINS  BUSINESS 81 

CHAPTER  VIIL 
THE  PRISON-CROP  ON  A  YOUNG  HEAD  ....     93 

CHAPTER  IX. 
BROKENHEARTED      .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .105 

CHAPTER  X. 
BLACKETT'S  THREATS 115 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XL 
AN  UNWILUN3  THIEF 

CHAPTER  XIL 
VICTORIA'S  COFFIN I4O 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
GLAD  TIDINGS .151 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
MRS.  LINNETT'S  LODGINGS      ....  ,    161 

CHAPTER  XV. 
AN.HOUR  Too  SOON       ....  .172 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
TWICE  IN  JAIL ,182 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
MEETING  AND  PARTING .193 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
A  RED- LETTER  DAY ,202 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
VICTORIA'S  WEDDING 21, 

CHAPTER  XX. 
BLACKETT'S  REVENGE ,222 

CHAPTER  XXL 

WHO  IS  TO  BLAMZ?  .          .          .          .          .          ,          ,          .238 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
THROUGH  JAIL  TO  THE  GRAVE.     .  .       .    250 

CHAPTER   XXIIL 
OUT  CF  THE  PRISON-HOUSE    .  .  -259 


IN   PRISON   AND  OUT. 


CHAPTER   I. 

TO   BEG   I   AM  ASHAMED. 

THE  small  back  room,  which  was  the  home 
of  a  family,  was  not  much  larger  than  a 
prison-cell,  and,  in  point  of  cleanliness  and 
light  and  ventilation,  was  far  inferior  to  it 
There  was  a  fair-sized  sash-window;  but  more 
than  half  the  panes  were  broken,  and  the  place 
of  the  glass  supplied  by  paper,  or  rags  so  worn 
as  to  be  useless  for  any  other  purpose.  Besides 
this,  the  next  row  of  houses  in  this  thick  knot 
of  dwelling-places  was  built  so  close,  as  to  shut 
out  even  a  glimpse  of  the  sky  from  the  rooms 
on  the  ground-floor  of  a  house  four  stories  high. 
The  whole  street  had  been  originally  built  for 
tenants  of  a  better  class  ;  but,  from  some  reason 
or  other,  it  had  fallen  into  the  occupation  of  tha 


8  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

poorest,  and  each  room  was  considered  sufficient 
accommodation  for  a  separate  family. 

This  small,  dark,  back  room  had  been  in- 
tended for  a  kitchen.  Close  against  the  "window 
stood  the  dust-bin,  into  which  was  emptied  all 
the  waste  of  the  house,  when  it  was  not  cast 
out  into  the  street.  Fortunately  there  was 
very  little  waste  of  food ;  for  every  scrap  that 
could  be  eaten  was  greedily  devoured,  except  in 
very  extraordinarily  good  times.  It  was  fortu- 
nate ;  for  the  dust-bin  was  seldom  looked  after, 
as  the  inmates  of  the  crowded  dwelling  knew 
little,  and  cared  less,  for  sanitary  laws.  Even 
the  poor,  hard-working  woman,  who  had  been 
struggling  for  years  to  pay  the  rent  of  this  dark, 
unwholesome  den  as  a  home  for  herself  and  her 
children,  hardly  gave  a  thought  to  the  tainted 
air  they  breathed,  whether  the  wirdow  was 
open  or  shut.  She  sighed  now  and  then  for 
better  light,  and  the  cool  freshness  of  free  air ; 
but  darkness  and  a  sickly  atmosphere  seemed 
to  be  the  natural  lot  of  all  about  her,  and  she 
was  not  given  to  murmur.  She  had  grown  so 
weary  with  the  long  and  monotonous  battle  of 
life,  that  she  had  no  longer  energy  enough  to 


TO    BEG   I   AM   ASHAMED.  9 

murmur.  It  was  God's  will,  she  said  to  ^erself, 
finding  something  like  peace  in  the  belief.  There 
was  a  darker  depth  of  misery  to  which  she  had 
not  yet  sunk,  —  that  of  feeling  there  was  no 
God  at  all. 

Her  husband  had  been  dead  for  ten  years, 
and  she  had  had  two  little  children  to  hamper 
all  her  efforts  to  lift  herself  and  them  out  of 
their  poverty.  She  had  often  failed  to  procure 
necessaries,  and  she  had  never  been  so  success- 
ful as  to  be  able  to  provide  for  more  than  their 
barest  wants.  They  had  all  learned  how  to 
pinch  hard,  how  to  eat  little  enough,  and  how  to 
wear  the  scantiest  clothing.  They  were  always 
trying  to  trick  Nature,  who  never  ceased  to  de- 
mand urgently  more  than  they  could  give,  but 
who  consented  to  take  less  than  her  claim, 
though  the  landlord  would  not.  The  children 
spent  most  of  their  waking  hours  in  the  street ; 
for  there  was  a  small  boiler  in  the  kitchen,  and 
the  mother  took  in  washing,  with  which  every 
inch  of  the  small  room  was  crowded.  When 
the  weather  was  too  bad  for  them  to  be  in  the 
streets,  they  lived  on  the  common  staircase  or 
in  the  passages  hearing  and  seeing  every  form 


IO  IN    PRISON    AND    OUT. 

cf  evil,  and  of  good  also,  swarming  about  them, 
and  growing  up  amongst  them  as  other  children 
grow  up  amid  the  peaceful  influences  of  well 
ordered  homes. 

In  the  mother's  mind  there  were  still  linger 
ing  dim  memories  of  a  very  different  childhood, 
and  of  better  times  before  her  marriage.  Some- 
times there  came  to  her,  as  there  comes  to  all 
of  us,  sudden  flashes  of  light  out  of  the  misty 
past;  and  she  saw  again  her  cottage -home 
down  in  the  country,  and  the  village-school  she 
went  to,  and  her  first  place  as  a  young  servant 
in  the  vicarage,  where  the  clergyman's  wife  had 
taken  care  she  should  keep  up  her  acquaintance 
with  the  Collects  and  the  Catechism.  Most  of 
the  Collects,  and  nearly  all  the  Catechism,  had 
faded  away  from  her  remembrance ;  but  many  a 
quiet  Sunday  afternoon  she  had  talked  to  her 
children  of  the  vicarage  garden,  where  flowers 
grew  all  the  year  round,  and  of  the  village- 
green,  where  boys  and  girls  could  play  unmo- 
lested and  unnoticed  ;  and  how  she  left  r  ome  to 
come  tc  London  for  high  wages,  and  had  never 
Been  it  again.  Then  she  told  them  of  the  gay 
and  grar.j  doings  there  had  been  in  the  greaf 


TO    BEG    I    AM   ASH  VMED.  1 1 

houses  where  she  had  been  in  service  until  she 
met  with  their  father,  and  gave  up  all  the  gran- 
deur and  luxury  for  love  of  him.  And  then  her 
voice  would  falter  a  little  as  she  talked  to  them 
of  his  death,  and  of  all  the  troubles  following 
quickly  one  after  another,  till  she  was  thankful 
to  have  even  such  a  home  as  this. 

The  poor  mother  was  ignorant ;  but  her  igno- 
rance was  light  and  knowledge  compared  with 
that  of  her  children.  They  knew  nothing,  and 
thought  of  nothing,  beyond  what  they  saw  and 
heard  about  them.  David  could  read  a  little, 
but  Bess  not  at  all.  The  thick  knot  of  streets 
was  swarming  with  children ;  and  it  was  not 
difficult  to  escape  the  notice  of  the  school-in- 
spector on  his  occasional  visits,  especially  as 
Bess  was  thirteen  and  David  nearly  fourteen 
years  of  age.  The  boy  had  begun  to  earn  a  few 
pence  in  the  streets  as  soon  as  he  could  sell 
matches ;  and  he  was  now  getting  a  precarious 
and  uncertain  living  for  himself  by  "  hob-;ob- 
bing,"  as  he  called  it.  The  Sunday  afternoons 
and  evenings,  when  their  mother's  work  stood 
still  for  a  few  short  hours,  were  their  holidays. 
She  had  no  longer  a  Sunday  gown  to  wear;  but 


12  IN   PRISON   AND   GOT. 

she  never  failed  to  put  on  her  wedding-ring, 
which  on  week-days  was  carefully  laid  aside, 
lest  it  should  get  too  much  worn  with  her  hard 
work.  Bess  and  David  felt  that  their  mother 
was  different  from  most  other  women  in  the 
street.  She  did  not  drink  or  swear  or  brawl ; 
and  all  their  little  world  knew  she  was  honest. 
They  were  vaguely  fond  of  her  good  character ; 
and  David  was  beginning  to  feel  for  her  a  pro- 
tecting tenderness  he  could  not  have  put  into 
words. 

For  a  long  while  neither  of  them  knew  that 
she  was  suffering  from  the  fatal  and  painful 
disease  of  cancer,  which  had  thrust  its  deep 
roots  into  her  very  life.  When  he  did  know  it, 
David's  heart  burned  within  him  to  see  her 
standing  bravely  at  her  washing-tub,  enduring 
her  agony  as  patiently  as  she  could.  At  last 
she  was  compelled  to  seek  help  from  the  parish  ; 
and  the  relieving-officer,  after  visiting  her,  rec- 
ommended out-door  relief.  There  was  no  doubt 
what  the  end  must  be,  and  not  much  uncer- 
tainty as  to  how  soon  the  end  must  come. 
Four  or  five  shillings  a  week  would  cost  the  par- 
ish less  than  taking  the  woman  and  her  girl  — 


TO   BEG    I   AM   ASHAMED.  13 

even  if  the  boy  was  left  to  take  care  of  himself 
—  into  the  house,  and  provide  for  her  the  neces- 
iaries  and  comforts  the  medical  officer  would 
Certainly  pronounce  indispensable.  He  advised 
a  carefully  reckoned  dole  of  four  and  eightpence 
a  week. 

Mrs.  Fell  was  more  than  satisfied.  Separa- 
tion from  her  children  would  have  been  more 
bitter  than  death  itself;  but  now  she  would 
have  Bess  and  David  with  her  as  long  as  she 
could  keep  death  at  bay.  The  four  shillings 
and  eightpence  would  pay  her  rent,  and  leave 
almost  fourpence  a  day  for  other  expenses  !  If 
she  could  only  drag  on  through  the  winter,  and 
keep  a  home  for  Bess  and  David,  she  would  not 
murmur,  however  hard  her  pain  was.  She 
could  bear  worse  anguish  than  she  had  yet 
borne  for  their  sakes. 

But  there  was  one  enemy  she  had  not  thought 
of.  The  wasting  caused  by  her  malady  pro- 
duced a  crav'ng  hunger,  worse  to  endure,  if 
possible,  than  the  malady  itself.  It  was  no 
longer,  possible  to  cheat  herself,  as  she  had  been 
used  *o  do  in  former  years,  with  putting  off  her 
hunger  until  it  changed  into  a  dull  faintness. 


14  IN   PRISON    AND   OUT. 

The  gnawing  pain  showed  itself  too  piamly  in 
the  desperate  clinching  of  her  teeth,  and  the 
wistful  craving  of  her  sunken  eyes.  Three- 
pence and  three  farthings  a  day  —  one  penny 
and  one  farthing  apiece  —  could  do  little  towards 
maintaining  a  truce  with  this  deadly  foe,  who 
must  surely  conquer  her  before  the  winter  could 
be  ended. 

"  It's  just  as  if  a  wolf  was  gnawin*  me,"  she 
said  to  David  one  evening,  when  he  came  in 
with  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  slice  of  cooked  fish 
from  a  stall  in  the  street ;  "  not  as  ever  I  see  a 
wolf,  save  once  when  father  was  alive,  and  you 
was  a  baby,  and  we  all  went  to  the  Zoological 
Gardens  for  a  holiday.  It  feels  as  if  all  the 
hunger  I  ever  had  had  hidden  itself  away  some- 
where, and  heaped  itself  up,  and  is  all  let  loose 
on  me  now.  You  children  take  your  share  first, 
for  fear  I'd  eat  it  all,  and  not  leave  enough  for 
you." 

"It's  all  for  you  and  Bess,  mother,"  he  an- 
swered :  "I  ate  my  supper  at  the  stall." 

He  did  not  say  that  he  had  made  his  supper 
of  a  crust  of  mouldy  bread  he  had  found  lying 
ir  the  street,  and  was  still  as  hungry  as  a  grow- 


TO   BEG    I    AM   ASHAMED.  15 

ing  lad  generally  is.  Like  his  mother,  he  was 
quite  used  to  disregard  the  urgent  claims  of  his 
appetite.  But  he  sat  down  at  the  end  of  her 
ii  oning-toard,  and  watched  her  by  the  feeble 
light  of  the  candle  as  she  greedily  devoured  the 
food  he  had  brought.  It  seemed  as  if  his  eyes 
were  opened  to  see  her  more  clearly  than  he 
had  ever  done  before,  and  her  face  was  indelibly 
impressed  upon  his  memory.  For  the  first 
time,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  he  noticed  her  thin, 
sunken  cheeks ;  her  scanty  hair  turning  gray ; 
her  eager,  bright  eyes;  and  the  suffering  that 
filled  her  whole  face.  The  tears  dimmed  his 
sight  for  an  instant,  and  a  slight  shiver  ran 
through  him,  as  he  gazed  intently  on  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I  only  took  fourpence 
all  day  for  running  two  errands,  for  all  I've 
been  on  the  lookout  sharp.  Mother,  I  must 
take  to  beggin'." 

"  No,  no ! "  she  answered,  looking  up  for  a 
moment  from  the  food  she  was  so  eagerly  eat* 
ing. 

"  I  must,"  he  went  on  :  "there's  lots  o'  money 
to  be  got  that  way.  They  all  says  so.  I 
couldn't  make  myself  look  hungrier  than  I  am  j 


i6  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

and  I'll  tell  the  truth,  as  you're  dyin'  of  a  can- 
cer, ay !  and  dyin'  of  hunger.  I  know  there'd 
be  folks  as  would  help  us.  I  hate  the  thought 
of  it  as  much  as  you ;  but  it's  better  me  than 
Bess.  Little  Bess  *ud  be  frightened,"  he  ad- 
ded, looking  at  his  ragged  sister,  for  whose  sake 
he  had  fought  many  a  battle,  and  borne  many  a 
beating  in  the  streets. 

"I  never  thought  it  'ud  come  to  beggin'," 
said  his  mother  in  a  sorrowful,  faltering  voice. 

"Nor  me,"  continued  David;  "but  there's 
hardly  no  work  for  such  as  me  as  don't  know 
nothink.  I'd  have  chose  to  be  a  carpenter  like 
father;  but  there's  no  chance  of  that.  Don't 
you  cry,  mother :  you've  done  your  best  for  us, 
and  it's  my  turn  to  do  my  best  for  you ;  and 
beggin's  the  best  as  I  can  do." 

David  felt  it  a  bitter  pass  to  come  to.  Un- 
taught and  ignorant  as  he  was,  he  had  his  own 
dream  of  ambition  to  be  a  carpenter,  and  earn 
wages  like  his  father.  He  had  gone  now  and 
then  to  a  night-school,  and  learned,,  after  a 
fashion,  to  read  and  write  a  little;  bat  there 
was  no  school  where  a  ragged  boy  I  Ve  him 
could  learn  any  kind  of  hand' craft  b>  M"hich 


TO   BEG   I    AM   ASHAMED.  IJ 

he  could  earn  a  livelihood.  If  there  aad  been 
such  a  place,  how  gladly  would  he  have  gone  to 
it,  and  how  heartily  would  he  have  set  himself 
to  work !  There  was  no  one  to  blame,  perhaps ; 
but  still  he  felt  it  to  be  a  hard  and  bitter  lot  to 
turn  out  as  a  beggar. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  after  a  long  silence, — 
"not  just  round  here,  you  know,  mother;  but 
out  in  the  country,  where  folks  ain't  all  in  such 
a  hurry.  I'll  take  care  of  the  police,  and  I'll 
be  back  again  afore  Sunday ;  and  you've  got 
Bess  with  you,  so  as  you  won't  be  lonesome. 
If  I've  luck,  I'll  try  again  next  week.  There's 
kind  rich  folk  as  'ud  do  somethink  for  you,  if 
they  only  knew ;  and  I'll  go  and  find  'em  out. 
Don't  you  take  on  and  fret,  mother.  It  ain't 
thievin',  you  know." 

"  I'll  think  about  it  in  the  night,  Davy,"  she 
answered  sadly. 

In  the  painful,  wakeful  hours  of  the  night, 
the  poor  mother  thought  of  her  boy  tramping 
the  roads  in  his  ragged  clothing  and  with  his 
almost  bare  feet,  and  stopping  the  passers-by  to 
ask  for  alms.  It  had  been  the  aim  of  her  long- 
aborious  life  to  save  herself  and  her  children 


1 8  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

from  beggary.  Oh,  if  this  cruel  malady  had 
only  spared  her  another  two  or  three  years, 
until  David  had  been  more  of  a  man,  and  Bess 
a  gr  jwn-up  girl !  She  could  have  laid  down  to 
d'*e  thankfully  then,  though  now  she  had  a 
terrible  dread  of  dying.  But,  as  far  as  she 
could  see,  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done 
than  to  let  David  try  his  luck.  There  were 
good  rich  folks,  as  he  said,  if  he  could  only 
find  them.  She  must  let  him  go  and  search 
for  them. 

"You  may  go,"  she  said  in  the  morning, 
after  they  had  eaten  together  the  few  fragments 
her  hunger  had  been  able  to  spare  the  night 
before ;  "  and  God  bless  you,  Davy !  Don't  you 
aever  do  nothink  save  beg.  That's  bad  enough  ; 
but  remember,  both  of  yer,  what  I  always  said, 
'Keep  thy  hands  from  pickin*  'and  stealin'.' 
Them's  good  words  to  go  by.  And,  Davy, 
come  back  as  soon  as  you  can;  for  I'll  be 
hungrier  for  a  sight  of  you  than  I  am  for 
victuals.  Always  tell  out  your  tale  quiet  and 
true,  as  your  mother's  dyin*  of  cancer  and 
famishin*  with  hunger;  and  if  they  answer 
'  No,'  or  shakes  their  heads,  turn  away  at  on',e, 


TO    BEG   I   AM   ASHAMED.  19 

and  try  somebody  else.  Don't  stop  folks  as  are 
in  a  hurry.  Kiss  me  afore  you  go,  Davy." 

It  seemed  a  solemn  thing  to  do.  He  felt 
half-choked,  and  could  not  speak  a  word  as  he 
bent  down  to  kiss  her  tenderly.  He  put  his 
arm  round  his  sister's  neck,  and  kissed  her 
too ;  and  then,  catching  up  his  threadbare  cap, 
he  went  to  the  door  trying  to  whistle  a  cheery 
street  tune.  He  paused  in  the  doorway,  and 
looked  back  on  them. 

"  Good-by,  mother,"  he  cried ;  "  don't  you 
fret  after  ire." 


2O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT, 


CHAPTER  IL 

A   BOY'S   SENTENCE. 

DAVID  was  in  no  haste  to  enter  upon  his 
new  calling.  He  walked  on  until  he  had 
left  the  busier  street  far  behind  him,  and  had 
come  upon  the  open  and  quieter  roads  in  the 
suburbs.  Here  and  there  trees  were  growing 
on  the  inner  side  of  garden-walls,  and  stretched 
out  their  leafy  branches,  tinted  with  autumn 
_Glors,  over  the  side-paths  along  which  he  pur- 
sued his  unknown  way.  The  passers-by  were 
more  leisurely  than  those  in  the  city,  and  occa- 
sionally gave  him  a  glance,  as  if  they  both  saw 
and  noticed  him,  —  such  a  glance  as  he  never 
met  amidst  the  ciowds  who  jostled  one  another 
in  the  thoroughfares  he  was  accustomed  to. 
This  observation  made  him  feel  shy,  and  more 
averse  than  ever  to  begin  his  unwelcome  task 


A   BOY'S   SENTENCE.  21 

It  was  past  noonday  before  he  could  bring  him- 
self  to  stop  a  kindly-looking  lady,  who  had 
looked  pleasantly  on  him,  and  to  beg  from  her 
help  for  his  mother. 

His  first  appeal  was  successful,  and  gave 
him  fresh  courage  to  try  again.  The  kind- 
hearted  woman  had  helped  him  to  take  the  first 
step  downwards.  He  met  with  rebuffs,  and  felt 
downcast  and  ashamed ;  but  he  also  met  with 
persons  who  gave  him  money  to  get  rid  of  his 
pinched  face,  and  others  who  believed  his  story, 
though  he  was  several  miles  from  home,  and 
bestowed  upon  him  a  penny  or  two,  feeling 
they  had  done  all  they  were  called  upon  to  do 
for  a  perishing  fellow-creature.  Not  one  took 
any  steps  to  verify  his  story,  but  passed  on, 
and  soon  forgot  the  ragged  lad,  or  remembered 
him  with  a  pleasant  glow  of  satisfaction  in 
having  discharged  a  Christian  duty. 

By  the  time  night  fell,  David  was  ten  miles 
from  home,  and  felt  foot-sore  and  weary;  for 
his  worn-out  shoes,  bought  at  some  rag-mart, 
chafed  his  feet,  and  did  not  .even  keep  out  the 
dust  of  the  dry  roads.  But  he  had  taken  three 
shillings  and  eightpence;  and  he  counted  the 


22  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

coppers  from  one  hand  to  another  with  m» wild 
;oyfulness.  So  much  money  he  had  never  pos- 
sessed at  one  time  in  his  whole  life ;  and,  when 
he  lay  down  to  rest  in  a  lodging-hcuse  in  a  back 
street  of  the  town  he  had  reached  by  nightfall, 
he  could  not  sleep  soundly,  partly  from  delight, 
and  partly  from  the  feir  of  being  robbed.  If 
he  had  luck  like  this,  he  would  go  home  rich  en 
Saturday  night.  Early  in  the  morning  he 
started  off  again  to  pursue  his  new  calling, 
which  was  quickly  losing  its  sense  of  degrada- 
tion. If  begging  was  so  profitable  a  business, 
and  he  had  no  chance  of  being  trained  for  any 
other  by  which  he  could  earn  honest  wages,  it 
was  no  wonder  that  the  boy  should  choose  beg- 
gary rather  than  starvation.  David  began  to 
feel  that  there  was  less  chance  of  dying  of  cold 
or  hunger. 

It  was  a  pleasant  autumn  day,  and  numbers 
of  people  were  about  the  roads,  sauntering 
leisurely  in  the  warm  and  bright  sunshine. 
Again  many  of  them  were  willing  enough  to 
give  a  penny  to  the  half -shy  boy  who  askeJ  in 
a  quiet  tone  for  alms.  He  had  not  fallen  inta 
any  professional  whine  as  yet ;  find  he  was  easii) 


A   BOY'S   SENTENCE.  2j 

repulsed,-  -so  easily  that  some,  who  refused  at 
first  to  g.ve,  called  after  him  to  come  back. 
There  was  a  touching-  air  of  misery  about  his 
thin,  overgrown  frame  and  pinched  face,  which 
appealed  silently  for  help.  He  was  willing,  he 
said,  to  clean  boots  or  clean  steps,  or  do  any 
other  job  that  could  be  found  for  him  as  a  labor- 
test  ;  but  very  few  persons  took  the  trouble  to 
find  him  work  to  do.  It  was  much  easier  to 
take  a  penny  out  of  the  purse,  drop  it  into  his 
hand,  and  pass  on,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction 
of  at  once  getting  rid  of  a  painful  object,  and  of 
appeasing  the  conscience,  which  seemed  about 
to  demand  that  some  remedy  should  be  found 
for  abject  poverty  like  his.  Possibly  it  did  not 
occur  to  any  of  these  well-meaning  and  charita- 
ble persons,  that  they  were  aiding  and  encour- 
iging  the  poor  lad  to  break  one  of  the  laws  of 
the  country. 

Whilst  it  was  still  day,  though  the  sun  was 
sinking  in  the  sky,  David  sat  down  under  a 
hedge  tc  count  over  his  heavy  load  of  pence, 
which  threatened  to  be  too  weighty  for  hi 3 
ragged  pockets.  He  had  now  five  shillings' 
worth  of  copper,  and  he  did  not  know  where  to 


24  IN  PRISON  A.ND  OUT. 

exchange  them  for  silver.  He  placed  his  old 
cap  between  his  feet,  and  dropped  in  the  coins 
one  after  another,  handling  them  with  an  almost 
wild  delight.  How  rich  he  would  be  to  go  home 
to  his  mother,  if  he  had  equal  luck  on  his  way 
back !  Five  shillings  for  two  days'  begging ! 
Now  that  he  had  found  out  how  easy  and 
profitable  it  was,  and  how  little  risk  attended  it 
if  you  only  kept  out  of  sight  of  the  police,  his 
mother  and  Bess  should  never  know  want  again. 
He  felt  very  joyous,  and  his  joy  found  vent  in 
clear,  shrill  whistling  of  the  tunes  he  had 
learned  from  street-organs.  He  was  whistling 
.  through  the  merriest  one  he  knew,  when  a  hand 
was  laid  heavily  on  his  shoulder ;  and,  looking 
up,  he  saw  the  familiar  uniform  of  a  policeman. 

"  You're  in  fine  spirits,  my  lad,"  he  said. 
"  What's  this  you're  crowing  over,  eh  ?  Where 
did  you  get  all  those  coppers  in  your  cap  ? 
How  did  you  come  by  them,  eh  ? " 

David  could  not  speak,  though  he  tried  to 
seize  and  hide  away  his  gains;  but  in  vain. 
The  policeman  picked  up  his  cap,  and  weighed 
it  in  his  hand. 

11  You've  been  begging  on  the  roads,"  he  said, 


A    BOY'S   SENTENCE.  23 

in  a  matter-of-course  manner,  "and  you  must 
come  along  with  me.  We'll  give  you  a  night's 
lodging  for  nothing,  I  promise  you.  We  must 
put  a  stop  to  this  sort  of  thing." 

Still  David  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  This 
sudden  reversal  of  all  his  gladness  and  prospects 
paralyzed  him.  He  had  known  al"  the  while 
that  any  policeman  had  the  power  to  take  him 
up  for  begging,  and  lock  him  for  the  night  in  a 
police-cell,  and  charge  him  with  his  offence 
before  a  magistrate.  Not  a  few  of  his  acquaint- 
ances had  been  in  jail,  and  they  mostly  said  it 
was  for  begging.  The  thought  of  his  mother 
fretting  and  longing  for  him  at  home,  and  the 
grief  and  terror  she  would  feel  if  he  did  not  get 
back  on  Saturday  night,  as  he  had  promised, 
flashed  across  him.  The  policeman  was  busy 
counting  over  the  heap  of  coppers,  and  David 
saw  his  chance,  and  seized  it.  He  sprang  to 
his  feet,  and  fled  away  with  as  fast  steps  as  if 
he  had  been  fleeing  for  his  life. 

But  it  was  of  no  avail  to  try  to  escape  from 
the  strong  and  swift  policeman,  who  instantly 
pursued  him.  David  was  weak  and  tired,  and 
could  not  have  run  far  if  it  had  been  for  his 


26  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

life.  He  felt  himself  caught  firmly  by  the 
collar,  and  shaken,  whilst  two  or  three  passers- 
by  stood  still,  witnessing  his  capture. 

"You  young  rascal'!"  said  the  policeman, 
"you're  only  making  it  all  the  worse  for  your- 
self. Here's  five  shillings  and  more  in  his 
cap,"  he  went  on,  addressing  the  by-standers ; 
"and  I'll  be  bound  he's  been  begging  along  the 
roads  as  if  he  hadn't  a  farthing.  That's  how 
the  public  is  imposed  on.  Five  shillings !  and 
I  don't  earn  more  than  four  shillings  a  day. 
There's  a  shame  for  you ! " 

"Ay,  it  is  a  shame!"  echoed  one  of  the 
spectators,  "  a  big  lad  of  his  age,  that  ought  to 
be  at  honest  work,  earning  his  own  bread  ! " 

"  Nobody's  ever  taught  me  how  to  work ! " 
sobbed  David,  standing  bewildered  and  ashamed, 
the  centre  of  the  gathering  crowd. 

"  We'll  teach  you  that  in  jail,  my  fine  fel- 
low," said  the  policeman,  marching  him  off, 
followed  by  a  train  of  rough  lads,  which  grew 
larger  and  noisier  until  they  reached  the  police- 
station,  and  David  was  led  in  out  of  their  sight. 

It  was  a  dreary  night  for  David.  Theie  was 
no  bed  in  the  eel?,  and  no  food  was  given  to 


A   BOY'S   SENTENCE.  2J 

him  In  his  anxiety  to  save  all  Ue  could  to 
carry  home  with  him,  he  had  not  tasted  a 
morsel  since  morning;  and  his  meal  then  had 
been  nothing  but  a  pennyworth  of  bread,  which 
he  had  taken  reluctantly  from  his  treasure.  He 
had  been  thinking  of  buying  his  supper,  and 
what  it  would  cost  him,  when  his  gains  had 
been  seized  from  him,  and  handed  over  to  the 
custody  of  the  police-superintendent.  He  was 
weary  too,  foot-sore,  and  worn  out  with  his  long 
tramp.  But  neither  his  hunger  nor  fatigue 
pressed  upon  him  with  most  bitterness.  He 
crouched  down  in  a  corner  of  the  cell,  and 
thought  of  his  mother  and  Bess  looking  out  for 
him  all  Saturday,  and  waiting,  and  watching, 
and  listening  for  him  to  open  the  door,  and 
never  seeing  him  at  all !  His  mother  had  said 
she  would  be  hungrier  for  a  sight  of  him  than 
for  bread !  Would  they  send  him  to  jail  for 
begging  ?  Boys  had  been  sent  there  for  three 
days  or  a  week,  and  his  mother  would  be  fret- 
ting all  that  time.  He  would  lose  his  money 
too,  and  go  home  as  penniless  as  he  left  it. 
He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  wept  bitterly 
till  his  tears  were  exhausted,  and  a  raging  hea.1 


28  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

ache  followed.  At  times  he  slumberea  a  little^ 
sobbing  heavily  in  his  short  and  troubled  sleep. 
When  he  woke  he  felt  the  pangs  of  hunger 
sharper  than  usual ;  for  he  had  been  nearly  a 
night  and  a  day  without  tasting  food,  and  his 
hunger  made  him  think  again  of  his  mother. 
Hungry,  weary,  and  bewildered,  with  an  aching 
head  and  a  heart  full  of  care  and  bitterness, 
David  passed  through  the  long  and  weary  hours 
of  the  night. 

It  was  after  mid-day  before  food  was  pro 
vided  for  him,  and  then  he  could  not  eat  it. 
He  felt  sick  with  dread  of  the  moment  when 
he  should  be  taken  before  the  magistrate.  He 
had  seen  other  prisoners  summoned  and  led 
away  to  receive  their  doom ;  but  his  turn 
seemed  long  in  coming.  At  last  it  came.  He 
obeyed  the  call  of  his  name,  and  found  himself, 
dizzy-headed  and  sick  at  heart,  standing  in  a 
large  room,  with  a  policeman  beside  him. 
There  was  a  singing  in  his  ears,  through  which 
he  listened  to  the  charge  made  against  hin, 
and  to  the  policeman  in  the  witness-box  giving 
his  evidence. 

"  Have  you  any  thing  to  ray  for  yourself  ? " 


A    BOY'S    SENTENCE.  29 

asked  a  voice  in  front  of  him ;  anil  David 
raised  his  dim  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  magis- 
trate, but  did  not  answer,  though  his  lips  moved 
a  little. 

"  Were  you  begging  ? "  asked  the  magistrate 
again. 

"  Yes,"  answered  David  with  a  violent  effort ; 
"but  I  am  not  a  thief,  sir:  I  never  stole  a 
farthing." 

"Is  there  any  previous  charge  against  this 
boy  ?  "  inquired  the  magistrate. 

A  second  policeman  stepped  into  the  witness- 
box,  and  David  turned  his  dazed  eyes  upon  him. 
He  had  never  seen  him  before. 

"I  have  a  previous  charge  of  stealing  iron 
against  the  prisoner  "  — 

"  It's  not  true !  "  cried  out  David  in  a  voice 
shrill  with  terror.  "  I  never  was  a  thief. 
Somebody  ask  my  mother." 

"  Silence !"  said  the  officer  who  had  him  in 
charge,  with  a  sh^rp  grip  cf  his  arm.  "You 
must  not  interrupt  the  court." 

"  He  was  convicted  of  theft  before  your 
worship  six  months  ago,"  pursued  the  police- 
man in  the  box  taking  no  notice  of  David's 


30  IN    PRISON   AND    OUT. 

interruption.  "  He  went  then  by  the  name  of 
John  Benson,  and  was  sentenced  to  twenty-one 
days." 

"  Have  you  any  thing  more  to  say  ?  "  asked 
the  magistrate,  looking  again  at  David. 

"  It  wasn't  me !  "  he  answered  vehemently. 
"  He's  mistook  me  for  some  other  boy.  I  never 
stole  nothing,  and  I  never  begged  afore.  Yo.u 
ask  my  mother.  Oh,  what  will  become  of  my 
mother  and  little  Bess  ? " 

"You  should  have  thought  of  your  mother 
before  you  broke  the  laws  of  your  country," 
said  the  magistrate.  "This  neighborhood  is 
infested  with  beggars,  and  we  must  put  a  stop 
to  the  nuisance.  I  shall  send  you  to  jail  for 
three  calendar  months,  when  you  will  be  taught 
a  trade  by  which  you  may  earn  an  honest  liveli- 
hood." 

David  was  hustled  away,  and  another  case 
called.  His  had  occupied  scarcely  four  minutes. 
The  day  was  a  busy  one,  as  there  had  been  a 
large  fair  held  in  the  district ;  and  there  was  no 
more  time  to  be  spent  upon  a  boy  clearly  guilty 
of  begging,  and  who  had  been  convicted  of 
theft.  No  one  doubted  for  a  momerit  this  latter 


A   BOYS    SENTENCE  31 

statement,  or  thought  it  in  the  least  necessary 
to  inquire  if  the  boy's  vehement  denial  had  any 
truth  in  it.  Another  prisoner  stood  at  the  bar, 
and  David  Fell  was  at  once  forgotten. 

It  seemed  to  David  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly 
struck  deaf.  No  other  sound  reached  his  brain 
after  he  heard  the  words,  "To  jail  for  three 
months."  Three  months  in  jail !  Not  to  see 
his  mother  for  three  months !  Perhaps  never 
to  see  her  again ;  for  who  could  tell  that  she 
would  live  for  three  months  ?  I-t  was  only  a  few 
minutes  since  he  heard  his  name  called  out 
before  he  was  hurried  into  court ;  but  it  might 
have  been  many  years.  He  felt  as  if  his  mother 
might  have  been  dead  long  ago ;  as  if  it  was 
very  long  ago  since  he  left  home,  with  her 
voice  sounding  in  his  ears.  He  seemed  to  hear 
her  saying,  "  Go'3  bless  you,  David  !  "  and  the 
magistrate's  voice  directly  following  it,  "  I  shall 
send  you  to  jail  for  three  months."  His  be- 
wildered brain  kept  repeating,  "  God  biess  you, 
Davy !  I  shall  send  you  to  jail  for  three 
months."  It  was  as  if  gome  one  was  mocking 
him  with  these  words, 


32  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  WEDDING-RING   IN   PAWN. 

NO  doubt  it  was  somebody's  duty  to  infc  rra 
Mrs.  Fell  of  David's  conviction,  and  sen- 
tence to  three  months'  imprisonment ;  but 
whether  the  official  notice  was  sent  to  the 
mother  of  the  boy  who  had  been  previously 
convicted  of  theft,  or  failed  to  reach  David's 
mother  through  the  post,  we  do  not  know.  She 
never  received  the  information. 

Mrs.  Fell  and  Bess  fclt  the  time  pass  heavily 
while  he  was  away.  The  poor  woman  had 
always  been  more  careful  of  her  children  than 
the  neighbors  were ;  and  she  had  never  allowed 
Bess  to  play  about  the  streets,  if  David  was  not 
at  hand  to  t  ike  care  of  her.  Bess  was  growing 
a  tall  and  pretty  girl  now,  an4  needed  more 
than  ever  to  have  somebody  to  look  after  her. 


THE   WEDDING-RING    IN    PAWN.  33 

So  she  was  compelled  to  stay  in-doors,  shut  up 
in  the  close  and  tainted  atmosphere  and  the 
dim  light  ol  their  miserable  home.  Mrs.  Fell 
did  a  little  washing  still  by  stealth  ;  but  she 
was  fearful  of  the  relieving-officer  finding  her  at 
her  tub,  and  taking  off  her  allowance.  She 
could  earn  only  a  few  pence,  and  that  with 
sharp  pain ;  but  the  pangs  of  hunger  were 
sharper.  Bess  was  old  enough,  and  willing  to 
help,  though  she  could  not  earn  sufficient 
altogether  for  her  own  maintenance.  Still,  if 
David  should  happen  to  come  back  with  a  little 
money  to  go  on  with,  all  would  be  well  for 
another  week  or  two,  and  some  work  might  turn 
up  for  him. 

Mrs.  Fell  was  very  lonesome  without  her  boy, 
and  sorely  did  she  miss  him.  She  was  one  of 
these  mothers  who  think  nothing  of  their  girls 
in  comparison  with  their  sons ;  and  David  had 
always  been  good  to  her,  and  cheered  her  up 
when  she  was  most  downcast  She  fancied  he 
was  growing  like  his  father ;  and  the  sound  of 
his  voice  or  his  footstep  brought  back  the  mem- 
ories of  happier  days.  David  had  promised  to 
be  back  on  Saturday,  but  she  almost  expected 


34  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

him  on  Friday  night ;  but  Friday  night  passed 
by,  and  David  was  still  away.  During  the 
long,  sleepless  hours  of  darkness,  she  was  think- 
ing of  him  ceaselessly,  little  dreaming  that  her 
boy  was  spending  his  first  night  in  jail. 

Saturday  passed  slowly  by ;  and,  when  even- 
ing came,  Mrs.  Fell  set  her  door  ajar,  and  sat 
just  within  it  in  the  dark,  looking  out  into  the 
lighted  passage  and  staircase,  common  to  all 
the  lodgers.  David  would  be  sure  to  whistle  as 
he  came  down  the  street,  and  her  ear  would 
eatch  the  sound  while  he  was  still  a  long  way 
off.  She  felt  no  hunger  to-night,  and  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  her  pain.  All  her  thoughts 
and  cares  were  centred  on  her  boy. 

"He'd  never  break  his  promise,  Bess,"  she 
said. softly.  "He  knows  I'm  hungering  for  a 
sight  of  him,  and,  whatever  luck  he's  had,  he's 
sure  to  come  home  to-night.  I've  wished  a 
thousand  times  as  I'd  never  let  him  go ;  but  it's 
over  now,  and  he  shall  never  go  again,  if  we  can 
only  keep  him  from  it.  We'll  get  more  wash- 
ing done,  you  and  me :  won't  we,  Bess  ?  And 
maybe  David  will  have  better  luck  in  getting 
jobs  to  do.  O  my  lad,  my  lad !  But  he'll  be 
here  very  soon  now." 


THE   WEDDING-RING   IN    PAWN.  35 

She  checked  the  sobs  which  hindered  her 
from  hearing,  and  sat  still  for  some  minutes, 
listening,  with  strained  ears,  to  catch  his  whistle 
amid  the  hubbub  of  sounds  that  noised  about 
her.  At  last  she  sent  Bess  to  the  street-door  to 
look  up  the  narrow,  ill-lighted  street,  to  the 
corner  with  the  brilliantly  illuminated  spirit- 
vaults,  round  which  David  might  come  any  mo- 
ment with  the  proceeds  of  his  begging  expedi- 
tion. Bess  had  some  bright  visions  of  her  own, 
based  upon  the  stories  of  successful  beggary 
which  the  neighbors  told  to  one  another ;  and 
she  was  as  full  of  impatient  anticipation  as  her 
mother. 

"It's  almost  like  the  time  I  used  to  watch 
for  father,  Bess,  before  we  were  wed,"  said 
Mrs.  Fell  plaintively ;  "  and  I  was  never  jnore 
on  the  fidgets  then  than  I  am  now  for  Davy, 
poor  lad  !  I  can't  keep  myself  still  a  moment. 
Father  used  to  wear  a  plush  weskit  as  was  as 
soft  as  soft  could  be,  and  I'd  dearly  like  Davy 
to  have  one  like  it.  I  priced  one  in  a  shop  one 
day ;  but  it  was  more  than  I  could  give  when  I 
was  in  full  work.  And,  Bess,  I'd  like  you  to 
have  a  pink  cotton  gown,  such  as  I  was  wed  in. 


$6  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

Rut  there !  it's  no  use  to  think  on  such  things 
It's  God's  will,  and  he  knows  best  If  my  lad 
'ud  only  come  in,  I  should  care  for  nothing." 

Bess  went  off  to  tHe  door,  stepping  softly 
past  the  front  room,  where  their  next  neighbor, 
Blackett,  lived,  and  gazed  up  to  the  stream  of 
light  shining  across  the  road  through  the  tavern- 
window.  She  stood  there  for  a  few  minutes  in 
silence. 

"He's  comin',  mother,"  cried  Bess  quietly; 
and  the  poor  woman's  heart  throbbed  painfully 
as  she  leaned  back  against  the  wall  almost  faint 
from  joy,  whilst  Bess  ran  eagerly  up  the  street 
towards  the  light,  which  for  a  brief  moment 
had  irradiated  the  figure  of  her  brother.  But  it 
was  not  David  whom  she  met,  though  it  was  a 
boy  of  his  age  and  size ;  and  Bess  felt  neai 
crying  out  aloud  when  she  saw  who  it  was. 
Still  he  was  an  old  companion  and  playfellow, 
and  as  nearly  a  friend  as  Blackett's  son  could 
be;  for  he  was  Roger  Blackett,  whose  father, 
living  in  Ae  front  room  on  the  ground-floor, 
close  against  the  door  through  which  every  one 
went  to  and  fro,  was  the  terror  of  all  the  in- 
mates cf  the  crowded  house. 


THE   WEDDING-RING    IN    PAWN.  37 

"Roger,  have  you  seen  our  Davy  any- 
where ? "  she  inquired. 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  he  answered.  "  Is  father  in 
the  house,  Bess  ? " 

"Ay,"  she  said. 

"Then  I'll  stay  outside,"  he  went  on.  "He 
does  nothing  but  bang  me,  and  curse  at  me  for 
an  idle  dog  and  a  cowardly  soft.  He's  drove 
the  rest  of  'em  into  thievin',  and  he'll  never  let 
me  a-be  till  he's  drove  me  to  it  I  was  very 
near  it  to-night,  Bess." 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried,  "don't!  I'd  never 
do  worse  than  beg,  if  I  was  you.  I  know 
David  'ud  die  afore  he'd  steal,  and  so  'ud 
mother.  We'd  all  clem  to  death  afore  we'd 
take  to  thievin'." 

"  I'd  have  been  drove  to  it  long  ago,"  said 
Roger,  "  if  it  hadn't  been  along  of  you  and 
your  mother,  Bess.  Father's  always  larfin'  at 
folks  like  you  settin'  up  to  be  honest ;  and  he's 
always  sayin'  as  I  haven't  got  a  drop  of  real 
blood  in  me.  I'm  bound  to  be  drove  to  it, 
however  long  I  fight  shy  of  it.  Only  it  'ud  vei 
you,  Bess." 

"Ah!"  she  answered  earnestly,  "  mother 'ud 


38  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

never,  never  let  David  or  me  speak  to  you 
again.  She's  set  dead  agen  thievin',  mother  is. 
She  won't  let  us  know  auy  jail-birds.  You 
see,"  continued  Bess  with  an  air  of  pride, 
"none  of  us  has  ever  been  in  trouble,  —  up 
before  the  justices,  you  know.  We've  never 
had  nothink  to  do  with  the  police,  'cept  civility ; 
and  the  police  has  nothink  to  do  with  us. 
Better  starve  nor  steal,  mother  says." 

But  Bess  had  been  so  long  in  the  street,  that 
Mrs.  Fell's  impatience  had  conquered  her.  She 
had  crept  to  the  street-door,  and  was  making 
her  way  painfully  towards  them. 

"Bess,  is  it  Davy?"  she  called.  "Be  sharp, 
and  bring  him  here." 

"  We're  coming,  mother,"  cried  Bess.  "  It's 
only  Roger.  You  go  back,  and  let  him  come 
into  our  room  for  a  bit,  for  company.  You 
come  with  me,  Roger,  and  talk  a  bit  to  mother : 
she's  frettin'  after  Davy  so !  You  ask  her 
about  the  parson's  garden,  and  the  place  where 
she  used  to  live,  and  any  thing  you  can  think 
of,  for  a  bit.  till  Davy  comes." 

The  t  ivo  children  stole  softly  past  the  closed 
door  of  the  front  room,  and  hid  themselves  in 
the  darkness  of  Mrs.  Fell's  kitchen. 


THE   WEDDING-RING   IN   PAWN.  39 

"It's  nobody  but  poor  Roger,"  said  Bess 
softly,  "  Davy's  not  come  yet,  and  Roger's 
afeard  of  his  father  till  he  gets  dead  drunk. 
Let  him  stay  with  us  a  bit,  mother." 

There  had  always  been  a  dread  in  Mrs.  Fell's 
mind  of  her  children  growing  too  intimate  with 
Roger  Blackett,  whose  two  elder  brothers  were 
openly  pursuing  the  successful  calling  of. 
thieves,  with  occasional  periods  of  absence 
supposed  to  be  passed  in  prison  ;  but  she  had 
been  too  much  afraid  of  Blackett  to  forbid  all 
intercourse  with  his  sons.  Roger  was  nearly 
fourteen,  and  had  not  been  in  trouble  yet ;  so 
she  could  not  very  well  refuse  to  let  him  enter 
her  room. 

"He's  welcome,"  she  said  coldly,  "as  long  as 
he  keeps  himself  honest." 

"  That  won't  be  for  long,"  muttered  Roger : 
"father's  always  a-goin'  on  with  me  to  keep 
myself,  and  I've  got  no  way  o'  keepin'  myself, 
save  thievin'.  He's  getting  angrier  with  me 
every  day." 

"But  there's  God'll  be  angry  with  you  if 
you  thieve,"  said  Mrs.  Fell;  "and,  if  you  make 
him  angry,  he  can  do  worse  at  you  than  your 
father.  You  ought  to  be  afeard  of  him." 


4O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  asked  Roger. 

"He  lives  in  heaven,  where  good  folks  go 
when  they  die,"  she  answered;  "but  he  sees 
every  thing,  and  can  do  every  thing.  Every 
thing  as  happens  is  just  what  he  pleases.  He 
could  make  us  all  rich  and  well  and  happy  in  a 
moment  o'  time,  if  he  chose:  but  it's  his  will 
we  should  be  poor  and  ill  and  miserable,  and 
it's  all  right  somehow;  so  we  must  keep  still, 
and  believe  as  it's  all  right.  I  know  I  often 
says,  'It's  God's  will,'  and  it  seems  a  little 
better.  But  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you  is, 
that  God  won't  ever  have  thieves  in  heaven. 
There's  a  great  pit  somewhere,  full  of  fire  and 
brimstone,  where  all  wicked  folks  go ;  and,  if 
you  thieve,  you'll  go  there.  I  don't  know  ex- 
actly where  it  is,  or  how  it  is;  but  it's  all  gospel, 
they  say.  It's  worse  than  hundreds  of  jails." 

The  woman's  low,  weak,  faltering  voice, 
uttering  these  terrible  words  in  the  darkness, 
made  Roger's  heart  shrink  with  a  strange  awe 
and  dread.  He  was  glad  to  feel  Bess  close 
beside  him,  and  to  know  that  she  was  listening 
as  well  'as  himself. 

"God's*  worse  than  father,"  he  said,  trem 
bling. 


THE    WEDDING-RING    IN    PAWN.  4! 

"  No,  no,"  continued  Mrs.  Fell.  "  I've  heard 
talks  preachin'  in  the  streets,  and  some  among 
'em  said  he  loxes  us  all  somehow.  I  heard  one 
of  'em  saying  over  and  over  again,  '  God  is  love.' 
'And  he'd  some  little  tickets,  about  as  big  as 
pawn-tickets,  with  those  words  printed  plain  on 
'em,  and  he  gave  one  to  everybody  as  asked 
him.  I  s'pose  there's  some  truth  in  it.  '  God 
is  love,'  I  say  to  myself  hundreds  o'  times  in 
the  night,  when  I  lie  awake  for  pain ;  and 
there's  comfort  in  it.  Ay,  when  my  pains  are 
worst,  and  when  I'm  faintin'  with  hunger,  if  I 
say,  '  God  is  love,'  it  helps  me  on  a  bit.  It's  all 
I  know,  and  I  don't  know  that  very  clear." 

"  Do  God  love  everybody  ?  "  inquired  Roger 
anxiously. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  Do  he  love  father  ? "  he  asked  again. 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of 
doubt. 

"  Then  I  don't  think  much  of  God,"  went  on 
Roger.  "  He  didn't  ought  to  love  father.  He 
ought  to  put  him  in  that  pit  o'  fire  and  brim- 
stcne;  for  he's  a  thief,  and  he  wants  to  make 
me  a  tlief.  And,  if  he  loved  any  on  us,  ne'd 


42  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 


let  us  be  drove  to  thievin'  and  beggin* 
Fo^ks  say  as  Davy's  gone  a-beggin'-  No  :  God 
loves  rich  folks  maybe  ;  but  he  don't  care  a 
rush  for  poor  folks." 

"I  can't  tell  how  it  is,"  moaned  Mrs.  Fell: 
"  only  it's  a  comfort  to  me  to  say,  '  God  is  love,' 
and  make  believe  it's  true.  And  my  Davy'll 
never  be  a  thief,  Roger,  —  never!  If  folks  do 
say  he's  gone  a-beggin',  they  can't  say  worse  of 
him.  Ah,  I  wish  he'd  only  come  !  " 

But  though  she  and  Bess  sat  up  till  long 
after  midnight,  and  until  every  inmate  of  the 
overcrowded  tenement  had  returned  to  their 
miserable  dens,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  to 
drown  the  echo  of  any  footstep  coming  down 
the  street,  there  was  still  no  sign  of  David's 
coming.  Bess  fell  asleep  at  last  on  the  floor  at 
her  mother's  feet  ;  but  she  kept  awake,  shiver- 
ing with  cold  and  pain,  and  heart-sick  with 
vague  terrors  as  to  what  should  keep  the  boy 
away. 

As  day  after  day  passed  on,  bringing  no 
tidings  of  David,  the  mother's  anguish  of  soul 
grew  almost  into.erable.  It  seemed  to  over- 
master her  bodily  pain,  and  render  her  nearly 


THE   WEDDING-RING    IN    PAWN.  43 

insensible  to  it.  Every  morning  she  wandered 
about,  asking  news  of  her  boy  from  everybody 
who  had  eve/  known  him,  until  her  strength 
was  worn  out ;  and  then  she  would  stand  for 
hours,  leaning  against  the  wall  at  the  street- 
corner,  looking  along  the  road,  and  straining 
her  eyes  to  catch  some  glimpse  of  him  amid 
the  ever-changing  stream  of  people  passing  by. 
She  could  no  longer  bring  herself  to  stand  at 
her  washing-tub,  cheating  the  parish  by  earning 
a  few  extra  pence  for  herself  by  the  toil  of  her 
hands.  Little  by  little,  all  that  was  left  of  her 
few  possessions  found  their  way  to  the  familiar 
pawn-shop,  till  her  room  was  as  bare  of  furni- 
ture as  it  was  possible  to  be,  and  yet  be  a 
human  dwelling-place. 

There  was  one  treasure  she  had  never  parted 
with,  however  pressing  and  bitter  her  necessi- 
ties had  been  through  her  long  years  of  widow- 
hood. It  was  the  one  possession  which  had 
been  the  pride  of  her  heart.  This  was  her 
wedding-ring,  of  good  solid  gold,  bought  for 
her  and  placed  upon  her  hand  by  the  husband 
she  had  lost  twelve  years  ago.  She  had  been 
too  cai  sf ul  of  it  to  wear  it  while  at  work ;  but 


44  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

every  evening  and  every  Sunday  her  children 
had  been  used  to  see  the  golden  glitter  of  it  on 
her  finger,  and  to  regard  it  with  a  sort  of  rever 
ential  delight.  It  was  the  visible  sign  to  them 
of  their  dead  father,  and  of  the  good  times 
their  mother  could  tell  them  of,  but  which  they 
had  not  known  themselves.  They  had  gone  to 
bed  many  a  night  supperless  that  they  might 
keep  the  mother's  ring  from  the  pawn-shop,  and 
run  no  risk  of  losing  it. 

But  things  had  come  to  such  a  pass  during 
David's  absence  that  the  ring  must  go.  It  was 
still  little  worn,  not  much  thinner  than  when 
David  Fell,  the  carpenter,  had  wedded  his 
young  wife  with  it.  Next  to  any  grief  or 
calamity  befalling  her  children,  this  was  the 
sharpest  trial  Mrs.  Fell  could  undergo.  Bess 
helped  her  to  crawl  to  the  pawnbroker's  shop, 
—  for  she  would  not  trust  it  even  to  Bess, — 
and  she  laid  it  down  on  the  counter  with  a 
pang  nearly  heart-breaking.  The  pawnbroker 
fastened  a  number  to  it,  gave  her  a  ticket,  and 
pushed  a  few  shillings  towards  her. 

"Take  care  of  it!  "  she  cried,  with  vehement 
jrgency  in  her  tone ;  "  take  care  of  it.  I  shall 


THE   W£DDING-RING    IN    PAWN.  45 

redeem  it :  God  in  heaven  knows  I  shall  redeem 
it  some  day.  It's  God's  will ! "  she  sobbed,  her 
dim,  eager  eyes  following  it  as  the  pawnbroker 
opened  a  drawer,  and  dropped  it  carelessly 
among  a  heap  of  pledges  similar  to  it 


46  IN   PRISON   AMD   OUT. 


CHAPTER  IV 

OLD  EUCLID'S  HOARD. 

AS  Mrs.  Fell,  leaning  heavily  on  the  arm 
of  Bess,  crept  homeward,  after  her  sor« 
rowful  visit  to  the  pawnbroker,  they  saw  an  old 
man,  one  of  their  neighbors,  making  his  way, 
with  a  shambling  and  limping  tread,  along  the 
uneven  pavement  before  them.  The  lamps 
were  lit  down  the  narrow  and  dirty  street,  and 
the  light  fell  on  the  dingy  figure  of  the  old  man 
as  he  passed  under  them  with  his  stooping 
shoulders  and  his  long,  rugged  locks  of  gray 
hair  falling  below  his  battered  and  broken  hat, 
round  which  still  clung  a  little  band  of  black 
material  that  had  not  become  quite  brown  with 
rain  and  sunshine.  He  was  a  small  man,  and 
seemed  to  have  withered  and  shrunk  into  a 
more  meagre  thinness  than  when  his  clothes 


OLD   EUCLID  S   HOARD.  47 

had  been  bought,  now  many  years  ago.  The 
face  under  the  battered  hat  was  of  a  yellow 
brownness,  and  much  wrinkled,  with  shaggy 
eyebrows  hanging  over  his  eyes.  There  was  a 
gleam  in  these  dim  and  sunken  eyes,  as  if  it 
was  possible  for  him  to  smile;  but  the  possi- 
bility seldom  became  a  fact.  He  looked  half 
asleep  as  he  shuffled  along;  and  in  a  low,  husky 
voice  he  was  dreamily  crying  "Cresses,"  but 
not  at  all  as  though  he  expected  any  one  of  his 
neighbors  to  spend  a  penny  on  his  perishable 
stock. 

"  There's  poor  old  Euclid ! "  said  Mrs.  Fell 
in  a  tone  of  pity,  as  if  she  was  looking  at  one 
whose  circumstances  were  as  bad,  if  not  worse, 
than  her  own. 

The  old  man's  baptismal  name  was  Euclid, 
his  surname  Jones ;  but  in  the  multitude  of 
Joneses  his  surname  had  long  been  lost,  and 
was  almost  forgotten.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
village  schoolmaster  in  some  quiet  spot  in 
Wales,  who  had  called  his  only  child  Euclid, 
with  a  vague  and  distant  hope  of  seeing  him 
some  day  a  distinguished  mathematical  scholar. 
But  the  schoolmaster  and  his  wife  had  both 


48  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

died  before  little  Euclid  had  fairly  mastered  the 
alphabet,  and  from  that  time  he  had  lived 
among  the  neighbors,  now  with  one  and  noW 
with  another,  passing  from  cottage  to  cottage, 
until  he  was  old  enough  to  scare  crows  and 
tend  pigs.  Little  learning  did  Euclid  get  at 
these  early  employments.  In  course  of  time 
he  drifted  up  to  London,  where  he  worked  on 
the  roads  till  he  was  disabled  by  an  accident. 
He  had  married  a  wife,  who  bore  him  eight 
children,  born  and  bred  under  every  chance 
against  health  and  life,  and  dying,  all  but  one, 
just  as  they  grew  old  enough  to  do  something 
for  themselves,  after  they  had  tested  their 
father's  love  and  endurance  to  the  utmost.  His 
wife  was  dead  also.  He  had  buried  them  all 
in  their  own  coffins,  unassisted  by  the  parish,  a 
remembrance  which  stirred  up  his  downcast 
heart  with  a  feeling  of  honest  pride  whenever 
it  crossed  his  brain. 

Life  had  brought  to  Euclid  an  enigma  to 
solve,  stiffer  and  more  intricate  than  the  most 
abstruse  mathematical  problem,  —  how  to  keep 
himself  and  his  off  the  parish  during  life  and 
how  to  get  buried,  when  all  was  over,  w  thout 


OLD   EUCLID  S   HOARD.  49 

the  same  dreaded  and  degrading  aid.  The 
problem  was  but  partially  solved  yet:  there 
still  remained  his  youngest  child  and  himself 
to  die  and  be  buried. 

Euclid  turned  in  at  the  same  door  as  that  to 
which  Mrs.  Fell  was  painfully  creeping.  He 
lived  in  the  one  attic  of  the  house,  having  the 
advantage  over  Mrs.  Fell  in  more  light  and 
fresher  air,  and  in  the  quietness  of  a  story  to 
himself ;  but  he  possessed  few  other  advan- 
tages. His  household  goods  were  as  poor  as 
hers  had  been  before  all  that  was  worth  pawn- 
ing had  gone  to  the  pawn-shop.  The  fireplace 
consisted  of  three  bars  of  iron  let  into  the 
chimney,  with  a  brick  on  each  side  for  a  hob,  on 
one  of  which  stood  a  browb  earthenware  teapot 
simmering  at  the  spout,  as  if  the  tea  had  been 
boiling  for  some  time.  There  was  a  bed  on  the 
floor  close  by  the  handful  of  fire,  and  Euclid's 
first  glance  fell  upon  it ;  but  it  was  empty,  for 
a  sickly-looking  girl  of  eighteen  was  sitting  on 
a  broken  chair  before  the  fire,  cowering  over  it 
with  outstretched  hands.  She  had  wrapped 
herself  in  an  old  shawl,  and  was  holding  it 
tightly  about  her,  as  though  she  felt  the  chill 


5O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

ot  the  November  evening;  but  she  smiied 
brightly  when  the  old  man's  wrinkled  face  and 
dim  eyes  met  her  gaze,  as  he  stood  in  the  door- 
way an  instant,  looking  anxk/usly  and  sadly  at 
her. 

"Come  in,  daddy,  and  shut  the  door,"  she 
said  cheerfully.  "  I'm  not  bad  to-day ;  but 
you're  late,  —  later  than  ever.  It's  gone  six, 
and  I  thought  you  would  never,  never  come." 

"  Folks  did  not  care  to  buy  creases  this  cold 
day,"  he  answered,  his  husky  voice  striving  to 
soften  itself  into  tenderness ;  "  but,  Victoria, 
my  dear,  you've  not  waited  tea  for  me  ?  " 

"I  should  think  I  have,"  she  said,  rising 
from  the  only  chair,  and  compelling  him  with 
all  her  little  strength  to  sit  down  on  it,  while 
she  took  an  old  box  for  her  seat.  "  I  couldn't 
relish  the  best  o'  tea  alone  at  this  time  o'  night, 
and  you  in  the  streets,  daddy.  So  we'll  have  it 
at  once ;  for  it's  been  made,  oh !  hours  ago,  — 
at  least,  it's  near  an  hour  by  the  clock.  That 
clock's  real  company  to  me,  father,"  she  added, 
looking  proudly  at  a  little  loud-ticking  clock 
against  the  wall,  which  seemed  the  best  and 
busiest  thing  in  the  bare  room. 


OLD  EUCLID'S  HOARD.  51 

"  I  ain't  got  no  'erring  for  you,  Victoria,  he 
said  regretfully,  "  nor  nothing  else  for  a  relish, 
—  nothing  save  a  few  creases,  and  they'd  be  too 
cold  for  your  stomach,  my  dear.  If  you  feel 
set  on  any  thing,  I'll  take  a  penny  or  two  from 
our  little  store,  you  know.  It's  all  quite  safe : 
isn't  it,  my  dear  ? " 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered,  a  shadow  flitting 
across  her  face  for  a  moment ;  "  you  needn't 
never  be  afeard  of  that  not  being  safe.  I'm 
not  set  on  any  think,  daddy." 

"How  much  is  it  now,  Victoria?"  he  in- 
quired, his  eyes  glistening  a  little  as  he  listened 
eagerly  to  her  reply. 

"It's  two  pound,  sixteen  shilling,  and  nine- 
pence  three  farthings,"  she  answered  without 
hesitation.  "I  take  good  care  of  it." 

"  I  think  we  shall  do  it,  Victoria,"  he  said, 
with  an  air  of  satisfaction ;  "  and  after  that,  my 
dear,  there  will  be  nobody  but  me ;  and  I'm  not 
afeard  but  I'll  save  enough  for  that.  No,  no : 
I  shouldn't  like  any  on  us  to  die  like  a  scamp 
upon  the  parish,  and  be  buried  in  a  parish 
coffin." 

Victoria   had   been   reaching  down   the   two 


52  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

cracked  cups  and  the  loaf  of  bread  from  a 
corner  cupboard;  and  now  she  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  wistfully  into  the  fire,  her  pale, 
thin  face  flushed  a  little  into  almost  delicate 
beauty.  Under  the  pillow  on  which  she  rested 
her  head  every  night,  and  on  which  it  lay  many 
a  long  hour  of  the  wearyful  day,  there  was 
always  hidden  a  precious  little  store  of  money, 
slowly  accumulating  by  a  few  pence  at  a  time, 
—  the  fund  that  was  to  pay  for  her  own  coffin, 
and  the  other  costs  of  her  own  poor  funeral. 
She  had  made  a  shroud  of  coarse  calico  for  her- 
self, and  kept  it  carefully  ready  against  the  tine 
it  would  be  needed.  There  was  no  question  in 
her  mind,  or  her  father's,  that  this  fund  would 
be  needed  probably  before  the  next  summer 
came.  Her  doctor,  who  was  a  druggist  living- 
in  the  next  street,  assured  her  that  good  living 
and  better  clothing  and  warmer  lodging  were 
all  she  needed;  but  he  might  as  ivell  have 
ordered  her  to  the  south  of  France  for  ae 
winter.  It  was  Euclid's  chief  anxiety  now  tnat 
the  sum  should  grow  as  fast  as  possible,  lest  an 
unusually  severe  winter  might  hasten  on  the 
necessity  for  it.  And  to  Victoria  it 


OLD   EUCLID  S    HOARD.  $3 

matter  of  as  much  interest  and  care  as  to  him, 
so  often  did  she  reckon  up  the  cost  of  a  coffin 
and  a  grave,  and  count  over  the  money  pro- 
vided to  procure  them  for  her.  She  thought  of 
it  again  as  she  stood  looking  into  the  fire,  and 
saw  as  vividly  and  fleetly  as  a  flash  of  lightning 
her  own  funeral  passing  down  the  narrow, 
common  staircase,  the  children  trooping  after 
it,  but  only  her  old  and  weeping  father  follow- 
ing as  mourner.  She  stooped  down,  and  kissed 
him,  as  if  to  comfort  him  beforehand  for  the 
grief  that  was  to  come.. 

"  Is  any  think  ailin*  you,  Victoria  ? "  he  in- 
quired in  as  gentle  a  tone  as  he  could  lower  his 
voice  to. 

"Nothin1  fresh,  daddy,"  she  answered:  "only 
you'll  be  lonesome  when  I'm  gone." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Euclid.  "  It'll  be  a  dark  shop 
wi'out  you,  my  dear." 

He  said  no  more,  but  sat  slowly  rubbing  his 
legs  up  and  down  before  the  fire,  while  his 
memory  travelled  back  over  the  twenty-five 
years  that  had  passed  since  he  was  a  strong 
man,  able  and  willLig  to  work  hard  and  to  live 
hard  for  the  sake  of  his  wife  and  children. 


54  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

Victoria  saw  him  counting  his  children  or.  hii 
fingers,  as  he  huskily  muttered  their  nai.ies. 
He  seemed  to  see  them  all,  his  boys  and  girls, 
who  were  gone  out  of  this  troublesome  world 
down  into  the  dark  secret  of  the  grave :  they 
were  all  living  in  his  memory,  and  his  wife, 
too,  who  had  trodden  the  same  strange  yet 
familiar  road  eighteen  years  ago.  He  had 
buried  them  all,  and  had  never  once  taken  a 
penny  from  the  parish.  His  withered  face  lit 
up  as  the  thought  crossed  his  mind. 

"Victoria,"  he  said,  as  if  this  recollection 
had  reminded  him  of  Mrs.  Fell,  "  there's  a 
mort  o'  trouble  downstairs  in  the  ground-floor 
back.  There's  Mrs.  Fell  as  bad  off  or  worse 
than  us,  though  she  do  take  parish  pay. 
There's  no  luck  in  parish  money,  I  know ;  but 
she's  dead  beat,  I  s'pose.  I  saw  her  comin'  back 
from  the  pawn-shop,  and  she  looked  like  death. 
There's  her  boy  David  away,  and  nobody  knows 
where  he's  gone  to,  and  she's  almost  heart- 
broke.  I  «ook  the  liberty  o'  noticin',  and  there's 
not  a  scrap  o'  fire  in  their  room.  So,  Victoria, 
my  dear,  if  you  didn't  mind  it,  we  might  aik 
her  up  here  a  bit  when  we've  done  our  tea 


OLD    EUCLID  S    HOARD.  55 

There's  not  enough  for  all,  or  we'd  ask  her  to 
come  up  for  her  tea.  But  she's  got  no  fire,  and 
we  have ;  and  four  of  us  will  be  warmer  than 
two,  if  you  didn't  mind  it." 

"Mind  it,  daddy?"  repeated  Victoria.  "I'd 
be  right  glad  if  she'll  come." 

Many  a  time  had  Victoria  glanced  longingly 
into  Mrs.  Fell's  room  as  she  passed  the  door, 
and  wished  she  would  call  out,  and  invite  her  in. 
But  Mrs.  Fell  had  felt  herself  in  a  superior 
position  to  Euclid,  — a  laundress  being  surely  of 
a  higher  social  standing  than  a  water-cress- 
seller,  to  say  nothing  of  living  on  the  ground- 
floor  instead  of  the  attic,  —  and  she  had  taken 
but  little  notice  of  Euclid's  girl  amid  the  con- 
stantly changing  members  who  inhabited  the 
house.  Bess  was  better  known  to  Victoria; 
and  David  had  many  a  time  shown  himself 
friendly,  and  run  errands  for  her  when  she  was 
too  poorly  to  go  out  herself.  To-night  she 
could  not  swallow  a  morsel  after  her  father's 
suggestion.  As  soon  as  tea  was  over,  and  the 
cups  and  teapot  put  away,  with  every  token  of 
their  poor  meal,  Euclid  went  downstairs  to 
)  his  invitatior  in  person,  whilst  Victoria 


56  m    PRISON   AND   OUT. 

arranged  £n  empty  box  or  two  to  serve  as  seati 
about  the  fire,  upon  which  she  put  another  tiny 
shovelful  of  coals.  Her  color  came  and  went 
fitfully  as  she  heard  Mrs.  Fell's  slow  footstep 
mounting  the  steps  leading  to  their- attic,  fol- 
lowed by  her  fathei  and  Bess ;  and  she  received 
them  shyly,  but  gladly,  at  the  door. 

"  It's  very  kind  on  you  and  Mr.  Euclid,  I'm 
sure,"  panted  Mrs.  Fell,  with  the  ghost  of  a 
smile  on  her  face,  "and  I  take  it  neighborly; 
and  if  there's  any  thing  as  me  and  Bess  can 
do"  — 

"Please  come  and  sit  down  in  the  chair," 
said  Victoria,  interrupting  her  easily ;  for  she 
was  still  struggling  for  breath.  She  was  soon 
seated  in  the  chair,  which  was  placed  in  front 
of  the  fire ;  whilst  Euclid  sat  on  one  side  on  an 
old  box,  with  Bess  and  Victoria  opposite  on 
another.  The  flickering  flame  of  the  small  fire 
shone  upon  their  faces,  and  was  the  only  light 
by  which  they  saw  each  other.  But  in  a  fevr 
minutes  they  felt  almost  like  old  friends. 

"  She's  the  last  I've  got,"  said  old  Euclid  to 
Mrs.  Fell,  nodding  at  Victoria,  who  was  talking 
to  B;ss  "  Her  mother  died  on  her,  when  sbe 


OLD   EUCLID  S    HOARD.  57 

urere  bom  eighteen  years  ago.  She  were  too 
weak  to  get  the  better  on  it,  and  she  had  to  ga 
I'd  five  little  children  when  she  died.  Victoria's 
got  her  complaint,"  he  went  on,  in  a  lower  tone, 
*  and  she's  the  last  out  o'  eight  on  them.  Boys 
ffid  gals,  they're  all  gone  afore  me." 

"It's  His  will  as  knows  best,  Mr.  Euclid," 
said  Mrs.  Fell,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  I  s'pose  it  is,"  replied  Euclid.  "  I  hope  He 
knows  ;  for  I'm  sure  I  don't.  I've  had  no  time 
for  thinkin'  of  nothink  but  how  to  keep  off  the 
parish.  Not  as  I'd  say  a  word  agen  a  woman 
takin'  parish  pay,  a  poor  weakly  woman  like 
you.  But  it  'ud  be  a  sore  disgrace  for  a  man  to 
come  on  the  parish  even  for  his  buryin'." 

Mrs.  Fell  sighed  again,  and  sat  looking  into 
the  red  embers  of  the  fire  sadly,  as  if  she  was 
seeing  again  the  bright  days  of  her  married  life. 

"I  never  lost  nobody,  save  my  poor  David, 
—  my  husband,  I  mean,"  she  said ;  "and  by  good 
luck  he  were  in  a  buryin'  club,  and  they  gave 
him  a  very  good  funeral,  —  a  hearse,  and  a 
mournin'-coach  for  me  and  the  two  children, 
arid  plumes !  But  there'll  be  nobody  save  the 
parish  to  bury  me ;  for  Bess  is  only  a  child,  and 
David's  gone  " 


$8  IN    PRISON   AND   OUT. 

"Where's  he  gone  to  ?"  asked  Victoria. 

"He  went  out  on  a  little  journey  nigh  upon 
a  month  ago,"  she  answered ;  "  and  we've  never 
heard  a  word  of  him  since  he  said  '  Good-by, 
mother.'  He's  never  come  back  again.  Some- 
Ihink's  happened  to  him,  I  know;  for  he's 
always  that  good  to  me  and  Bess,  you  couldn't 
think!  I'm  frettin'  after  him  all  the  while 
more  than  I  can  tell :  it's  wastin'  me  away 
But  it's  God's  will,  as  good  folks  say ;  and 
there's  none  on  us  as  can  fight  agen  him." 

"And  Bess  says  you've  been  forced  to  part 
wi'  your  weddin'  ring,"  Victoria  replied,  with  a 
shy  look  of  sympathy. 

The  tears  welled  up  into  Mrs.  Fell's  eyes, 
and  Bess  bowed  her  head  in  shame.  For  the 
first  evening  in  her  life,  when  she  had  no  work 
to  do,  the  poor  woman  felt  that  her  finger  had 
lost  its  precious  sign  of  her  married  life.  She 
might  almost  as  well  have  been  an  unmarried 
woman,  —  one  of  those  wretched  creatures  on 
whom  she  had  always  looked  down  with  honest 
pride  and  a  little  hardness.  She  laid  her  right 
hand  over  her  \indecorated  finger,  and  looked 
back  into  Victoria's  sympathizing  face  with  an 
expressior  of  bitter  grief. 


OLD   EUCLID  S    HOARD.  59 

"I'll  work  till  I  drop  to  get  it  back,"  cried 
Bess,  with  energy. 

"  I  wish  my  missis  were  alive  now,"  said 
Euclid.  "  I'm  always  a-wishin'  it ;  but  she 
were  a  good  woman,  and  she  knew  sum  mat 
more  about  God  than  most  folks,  and  about 
Him  as  died  for  us.  I  never  was  a  scholar ;  but 
she  could  read,  ay,  splendid !  and  she  knew  a 
mort  o'  things.  She  taught  me  a  lot,  and  I 
remembered  them  long  enough  to  teach  Victo- 
ria some  of  'em.  Victoria,  my  dear,  there's 
them  verses  as  was  your  mother's  favorites,  — 
them  as  I  taught  you  when  you  was  little. 
I've  forgot  'em  myself,  Mrs.  Fell ;  but  she's  got 
them  all  right  and  straight  in  her  head,  and  she 
says  them  back  to  me  now  my  memory's  gone. 
Sometimes  I  think  it's  her  mother  a  sayin'  of 
'em.  'The  Lord,'  you  know,  my  dear." 

Victoria's  face  flushed  again,  and  her  voice 
trembled  a  little  as  she  began  to  speak,  whilst 
Bess  fastened  her  dark  eyes  eagerly  upon  her ; 
and  Euclid  and  Mrs.  Fell,  with  their  careworn 
and  withered  faces  turned  straight  to  the  fire, 
nodded  their  heads  at  the  close  of  each  verse, 
as  if  uttering  a  silent  "Amen." 


6O  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 

"  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd  :  I  shall  not  want 

"  He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pas- 
tures ;  he  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters. 

"  He  restoreth  my  soul ;  he  leadeth  me  in 
the  paths  of  righteousness  for  his  name's  sake. 

"Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil ;  for 
thou  art  with  me :  thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they 
comfort  me. 

"Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the 
presence  of  mine  enemies;  thou  anointest  my 
head  with  oil :  my  cup  runneth  over. 

"  Surely  goodness  and  me  -cy  shall  follow  me 
all  the  days  of  my  life ;  and  '  wUl  dwell  in  the 
house  of  the  Lord  forever." 


LESSONS   IN   PRISON.  6l 


CHAPTER  V. 

LESSONS    IN    PRISON. 

IT  was  quite  dark  at  night  when  the  p:  ison 
van  containing  David  and  other  convicted 
offenders  reached  the  jail  to  which  they  were 
committed.  As  yet  he  was  still  feeling  be- 
wildered and  confused ;  and  the  sound  of  heavy 
doors  clanging  after  him  as  he  passed  through 
them,  and  the  long,  narrow  passages  along 
which  he  was  led,  only  served  to  heighten  his 
perplexity.  He  had  hardly  ever  been  within 
walls  except  those  of  the  poor  house  which  had 
been  his  home  as  long  as  he  could  remember, 
and  the  prison  appeared  immeasurably  large  as 
he  dragged  his  weary  footsteps  along  the  stone 
flagging  of  the  corridors.  The  spotless  cleanli- 
ness of  both  floor  and  walls  seemed  also  to  re- 
move him  altogether  out  of  the  world  with 


62  IN    PRISON   AND    OUT. 

which  he  was  acquainted.  The  dirt  and  squalor 
of  the  old  jails  would  have  been  more  home- 
like to  him.  By  the  time  his  hair  had  been 
cropped  close  to  his  head,  and  the  prison-garb 
put  upon  him  in  the  place  of  his  own  familiar 
clothes,  stained  and  tattered  with  long  wear  of 
them,  he  began  to  doubt  his  own  identity. 
Was  he  really  David  Fell  ?  Could  he  be  the 
boy  who  had  hitherto  led  the  freest  life  possible, 
roaming  about  the  busy  streets,  with  no  person 
to  forbid  or  to  question  him  ?  David  Fell  could 
not  be  he  who  was  now  locked  up  quite  alone  in 
a  little  cell,  dimly  lighted  by  a  gas:jet,  which  it- 
self was  locked  up  in  a  cage  lest  he  should  touch 
it  Not  a  sound  came  to  his  ears,  let  him  listen 
as  sharply  as  he  could.  Where  was  the  old  roll 
and  roar  of  the  streets,  and  the  cries  of  children, 
and  the  shrill  voices  of  women,  and  the  din  and 
tumult,  and  stir  and  life,  to  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed ?  No  dream  as  dreadful  as  this  silence 
and  solitude  had  ever  visited  him. 

For  a  long  while  he  could  not  go  to  sleep, 
though  his  previous  night  in  the  police-station 
had  been  one  of  wakefulness.  His  hammock 
was  comfortable,  more  comfortable  than  any 


.LESSONS    IN    PRISON.  63 

bed  he  had  ever  slept  on,  and  his  prison-rug 
was  warm ;  but  the  very  comfort  and  warmth 
brought  his  mother  to  his  mind, — his  mother 
and  little  Bess.  What  were  they  doing  now  ? 
Were  they  shivering  on  their  hard  mattress, 
under  their  threadbare  counterpane,  which  was 
all  that  was  left  to  them  to  keep  out  the  night's 
chill  ?  Perhaps  they  were  looking  out  for  him. 
What  day  was  it?  Was  it  not  Saturday  to- 
day ?  And  he  had  promised  to  be  home  on 
Saturday ! 

Oh,  how  different  it  would  all  have  been  if  he 
had  only  escaped  being  caught !  He  would  have 
been  at  home  by  this  time ;  and  they  could 
have  had  a  bit  of  fire  in  the  grate,  and  some- 
thing to  make  a  feast  of  as  they  sat  round  it, 
whilst  he  told  the  story  of  his  wanderings, 
and  tried  to  describe  all  the  rich,  good  folks 
who  had  been  kind  to  him.  Or  if  the  magis- 
trate had  taken  away  all  the  money,  and  let  him 
go  home  on  his  promise  never  to  go  begging 
again,  even  that  would  have  been  nothing  to  this 
trouble.  He  fancied  he  could  see  his  mother's 
face,  pale  yet  smiling,  as  she  listened  to  his 
danger,  and  his  escape  from  it ;  and  Bess,  sit- 


64  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

ting  on  the  floor,  with  shining  eyes  and  clasped 
hands,  hearkening  eagerly  to  every  word.  Why 
had  they  sent  him  to  jail  ?  At  last  he  sobbed 
himself  to  sleep;  but  all  through  the  night 
might  be  heard,  if  there  was  any  ear  to  hear, 
the  heavy,  deep-drawn  sob  of  the  boy's  over- 
,  whelmed  heart. 

He  was  awakened  early  in  the  morning,  and 
briefly  told  what  he  must  do  before  quitting  his 
cell.  Then  he  ate  his  breakfast  alone  in  the 
dreary  solitude  of  the  prison-walls,  and  the  food 
almost  choked  him.  It  seemed  to  the  boy,  used 
to  the  wild,  utter  freedom  of  the  streets,  as  if 
his  very  limbs  were  fettered,  and  that  he  could 
not  move  either  hand  or  foot  freely.  His  body 
did  not  seem  to  belong  to  himself  any  longer. 
He»was  neither  hungry  nor  cold,  as  he  might 
have  been  at  home ;  but  his  head  ached,  and  his 
heart  was  sore  with  thoughts  of  his  mother.  He 
was  unutterably  sick  and  sad.  Cold  and  hun- 
ger were  almost  like  familiar  friends  to  him ; 
but  he  did  not  know  this  faintness  and  heavi- 
ness, this  numbness  which  kept  him  chained  to 
the  prison-seat,  and  made  it  appear  an  impossi- 
bility that  a  day  or  two  ago  he  was  rambling 


LESSONS    IN    PRISON.  65 

abovt  as  long  as  he  pleased,  and  where  he 
pleased,  in  the  wide,  free  world,  outside  the 
prison-walls.  Were  there  any  boys  like  him 
still  running  and  leaping  and  shouting  out 
yonder  in  the  autumn  sunshine? 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  he  was  left 
longer  than  usual  to  himself.  He  was  taken 
to  the  chapel,  and  sat  in  his  place  during  the 
reading  of  the  prayers  and  the  sermon  which 
followed ;  but  not  a  word  penetrated  to  his 
bewildered  brain.  It  was  much  the  same  on 
the  week-day  when  he  went  to  school.  He 
knew  a  little  both  of  reading  and  writing ;  but 
he  could  not  control  his  attention  to  make  use 
of  what  he  knew.  He  said  the  alphabet  stupid- 
ly, and  wrote  his  first  copy  of  straight  lines 
badly.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  think  of 
these  things.  His  mind  was  wandering  sadly 
round  the  central  thought  that  he  was  in  jail, 
and  what  would  become  of  his  mother  and  little 
Bess  -without  him. 

David  waj  naturally  a  bright  boy,  active  in 
mind  and  body;  but  he  was  crushed  by  the 
sudden  zit<i  extreme  penalty  that  had  befallen 
him.  Ho  h&l  all  along  known  that  the  police 


66  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

were  "down  '  upon  begging;  but  it  had  not 
entered  his  mind  that  he  could  ever  actually 
get  into  jail  except  for  thieving.  Among  the 
street-lads  of  his  acquaintance  many  a  one  had 
been  in  for  some  short  term  for  picking  pockets 
or  stealing  from  the  street-stalls  ;  but  few  of 
these  had  ever  been  sentenced  to  three  months' 
imprisonment.  And  he  had  always  kept  his 
hands  from  picking  and  stealing,  —  the  only 
item  of  his  duty  to  man  which  his  mother  had 
impressed  upon  him.  He  would  not  have 
begged  if  he  could  have  worked ;  but  no  man 
of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  about  him  had 
offered  him  work,  or  seen  that  he  was  taught  to 
work.  Yet  here  he  was  for  three  months  in 
jail,  a  lad  who  had  never  known  any  will  to 
guide  him  but  his  own  untrained  and  vagrant 
nature,  and  his  mother's  kindly  and  weak  in- 
dulgence. 

The  first  glimmer  of  hope  came  to  him  when 
he  was  set  to  learn  shoemaking.  This  was  a 
trade  by  which  he  could  earn  a  living,  —  not  the 
trade  he  would  have  chosen  (his  ambition  was 
to  be  a  carpenter  like  his  unknown  father),  but 
still  honest,  real  work.  He  received  his  first 


LESSONS    IN    PRISON.  6? 

lesson  in  a  handicraft  with  ardor,  and  sat  with 
an  old  boot  on  his  knee,  picking  it  to  pieces 
with  unwearying  industry.  If  he  could  only 
learn  as  much  as  to  mend  his  mother's  shoes 
before  his  term  was  out !  The  tears  started  to 
his  dull,  bloodshot  eyes,  and  his  lips  quivered 
at  the  thought  of  it.  He  would  do  his  best  at 
any  rate  to  learn  this  lesson. 

The  jail  was  a  large  one,  and  the  number  of 
prisoners  great.  David  had  been  asked  if  he 
was  a  Protestant  or  a  Roman  Catholic,  —  a 
question  he  did  not  understand,  and  could  not 
answer.  He  was  classed  with  the  Protestants, 
and  put  under  the  care  of  the  jail-chaplain,  who 
saw  him  among  the  other  prisoners,  and  taught 
him  his  duty  towards  God  in  a  class,  but  who 
could  not  find  time  to  give  him  any  individual 
attention,  as  he  was  engaged  in  an  important 
controversy.  The  chaplain  told  him,  among 
the  rest,  that  he  had  broken  the  laws  of  his 
country  and  of  God,  and  that  his  punishment 
was  the  just  reward  of  his  sin.  David's  ideas 
of  right  and  wrong  were  exceedingly  limited, 
and  his  conscience  very  uninformed ;  but  he 
could  not  believe  he  had  done  wrong,  and  he 


68  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

did  not  His  mother  was  starving,  and  he  had 
begged  for  help.  If  the  laws  of  his  country 
and  of  God  forbade  him  to  do  this,  they  were 
in  the  wrong. 

He  could  not  have  put  his  thoughts  into 
words,  but  they  were  none  the  less  in  his  heart, 
—  dim,  bewildering,  and  oppressive;  and  he 
pondered  over  them  night  and  day.  Very  few 
persons  spoke  to  him,  and  he  was  never  ready 
to  speak  in  reply.  Those  who  taught  him 
thought  him  a  blockhead,  or  fancied  that  he 
was  at  least  shamming  incapacity  and  vacancy 
of  mind.  As  a  matter  of  fact  his  mind  was 
always  absent,  except  at  his  cobbling  lesson; 
for  he  was  incessantly  brooding  over  the  recol- 
lection of  his  free  life,  and  of  the  poor  desolate 
home  he  had  been  so  suddenly  torn  from. 

David  had  no  idea  of  writing  to  his  mother, 
or  hearing  from  her.  No  such  thing  as  a  letter 
reaching  them,  or  being  written  in  their  home, 
had  ever  occurred  within  his  memory.  The 
policeman  was  a  much  more  frequent  visitor 
than  the  postman  in  their  street.  Yet  he 
longed  for  her  to  know  where  he  was.  Day 
after  day  he  wondered  what  had  happened  to 


LESSONS    IN    PRISON.  6<J 

her  and  Bess,  and  knew  they  were  wondering 
and  fretting  about  him.  The  only  comfort  he 
had  —  the  only  miserable  spark  of  hope  —  was 
in  thinking  he  should  know  how  to  mend  their 
shoes  when  he  went  home. 

It  was  therefore  with  a  sudden  burst  as  of 
sunshine  that  he  learned  one  day"1:hat  prisoners 
might  write  to  their  friends  once  in  three 
months.  The  schoolmaster  gave  him  the  writ- 
ing materials,  and  he  took  unwearied  pains  over 
a  letter  to  his  mother.  The  sheet  of  note- 
paper  contained  the  address  of  the  jail,  and 
under  it  David  wrote,  in  his  crooked,  ill-formed 
characters,  as  follows  :  — 

"  DEAR  MUTHER,  —  I  was  took  up  for  beging,  and 
cent  to  jal,  and  I'm  lernin'  to  mend  shoos.  Don't  yu  fret 
about  me.  I  luv  yu  and  Bess.  They'll  let  me  out  in  3 
munths,  and  I'll  mend  yure  shoos.  I've  kep  my  hands 
from  pickin'  and  steelin'  as  muther  ses.  God  bless  yu. 
From  david  fell  yure  luvin'  son." 

He  slept  that  night  more  soundly  than  he 
had  ever  done  before  within  the  prison-walls, 
and  dreamed  pleasant  dreams  of  working  for 
his  mother,  and  buying  her  and  little  Bess  all 
they  needed  with  the  money  he  had  earned. 


TO  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

NOT   GOD'S   WILL? 

WHEN  Mrs.  Fell  and  Bess  bade  Euclid 
and  Victoria  good-night,  and  went 
downstairs  to  their  own  room,  they  felt  cheered 
and  comforted  by  the  neighborliness  they  had 
received.  Bess  was  ready  to  declare  Victoria 
the  prettiest  and  cleverest  girl  in  the  world. 
As  they  opened  their  door,  they  saw  a  letter 
lying  just  within  it,  which  had  been  slipped 
through  the  nick  below  it,  and  which  was 
scarcely  visible  in  the  darkness.  Such  an  extra- 
ordinary  event  —  one  which  had  never  befallen 
them  before — filled  them  with  so  much  aston- 
ishment, that  it  was  with  trembling  hands  Bess 
stooped  to  pick  it  up.  It  was  a  real  letter,  with 
a  stamp  and  post-mark  upon  it,  though  they 
could  hardly  believe  their  own  eyes.  Thers 


NOT   GODS   WILL?  J\ 

was  no  light  in  their  own  room,  not  even  a  dim 
farthing  candle  to  burn ;  and  there  was  no 
resource  but  to  carry  the  strange  letter  to  the 
gas-light  or.  the  stairs,  and  read  it  there  as 
quickly  and  quietly  as  possible,  with  the  very 
probable  chance  of  some  of  their  neighbors 
coming  by  and  watching  them  inquisitively. 

It  must  be  news  of  David :  there  was  no  one 
else  in  the  world  to  write  to  them.  Bess  could 
not  read  writing,  and  it  was  no  easy  task  to 
Mrs.  Fell.  But  as  soon  as  she  unfolded  the 
sheet  of  paper,  which  was  headed  by  the  name 
of  the  jail  where  he  was  imprisoned  printed 
plainly  upon  it,  and  which  she  read  half  aloud 
before  the  meaning  reached  her  brain,  she 
uttered  a  piercing  shriek  of  anguish,  which 
rang  through  the  whole  house,  and  brought 
every  inmate  of  it  running  into  the  passages 
and  upon  the  staircases.  Mrs.  Fell  was  lying 
in  a  deep  swoon  upon  the  floor,  and  Bess  was 
kneeling  beside  her,  calling  to  her,  and  trying  to 
raise  her  up.  Blackett  was  the  first  to  reach 
her ;  and  the  half -drunken  man  gave  her  a  rough 
push  with  his  foot,  uttering  a  brutal  oath. 

"  You  leave   her  alone ! "  cried   old   Euclid, 


72  IN    PRISON    AND    OUT. 

hurrying  downstairs,  and  confronting  Blacketl 
with  a  courage  that  astonished  himself  when 
he  came  to  think  of  it;  "you  leave  Mrs.  Fell 
be !  She's  been  spendin'  the  evenin'  with  me 
and  my  daughter,  and  I'll  take  care  on  her. 
You  ain't  no  man  if  you'd  kick  a  poor  sickly 
woman  like  her.  You're  a  coward  if  you  touch 
her  again,  and  I  say  so.  Ain't  he  ? "  he  shouted 
in  his  hoarse  voice,  as  he  turned  with  a  quiver- 
ing face  and  excited  gestures  to  the  cluster  of 
neighbors  gathered  about  them. 

"  Ay,  he  is  !  "  cried  the  crowd  with  so  unani- 
mous a  voice,  that  Blackett  even  was  cowed  by 
it,  and,  contenting  himself  with  muttering  some 
bad  language,  retreated  to  his  own  place.  Two 
or  three  of  the  neighbors  helped  Euclid  to 
carry  the  poor  woman  into  her  room.  Even 
to  them,  used  to  destitution  as  they  were,  it 
seemed  bare  of  every  thing.  There  was  no 
seat  left,  unless  a  few  bricks,  picked  up  in  the 
street,  could  be  called  seats ;  and  they  had  to 
lay  her  down  upon  the  mere  sacking  of  the 
bedstead,  from  which  the  bed  and  clothing  had 
all  disappeared.  Euclid  gazed  round  him  with 
a  strange  pity  stirring  at  his  heart,  mingled 


NOT  GOD'S  WILL?  73 

with  a  sense  of  superior  comfo/t  in  his  own 
circumstances.     He  felt  most  like  a  rich  man. 

"  This  is  bad,  worse  than  any  on  us,"  he 
said ;  "  and  she  might  ha'  been  my  widow,  il 
I'd  died  first,  instead  of  my  wife.  She  migul 
ha'  been  the  widow  of  any  one  on  you.  I  vote 
as  we  make  a  little  collection  for  her  in  the 
house ;  and  I'll  begin  with  a  shillin',  and  that's 
more  than  I've  earned  to-day.  Some  on  you 
can  do  it  easier  than  me." 

"She  gets  four  shilling  and  eightpence 
parish  pay,  every  Tuesday,"  objected  one  ch.' 
the  women  who  stood  by. 

"And  pays  arf-a-crown  a  week  rent,"  replied 
Euclid  :  "  it's  short-commons  after  that." 

"She's  always  a-hungered,"  sobbed  Bess; 
"nothin*  can  satisfy  mother." 

"  She  ought  to  go  into  the  house,  where  she'd 
have  medicine  and  every  think,"  said  another 
voice  :  "  the  orficer  says  so." 

"Who  says  she  ought  to  go  into  the  house  ? " 
asked  Euclid,  lifting  up  his  head,  and  looking 
round  him  with  eyes  almost  bright  with  indig- 
nation. "  She,  as  is  a  decent,  hard-workin*' 
woman,  and  a  honest  man's  widow  1  She's  not 


74  IN    PRISON   AND    OUT. 

the  sort  as  goes  into  the  house.  We  know  who 
goes  there,  —  bad  women,  as  no  decent  man 
'ud  look  at,  and  drunken  women,  and  swearin', 
cunin'  women.  There  couldn't  be  worse  folks 
in  hell ;  and  I'd  as  lief  say  she  ought  to  go  to 
hell:  the  company  'ud  be  as  good.  Don't  no- 
body speak  o'  goin*  to  the  house  while  I'm  by." 

Old  Euclid  had  always  been  regarded  by 
his  neighbors  as  a  quiet,  timid  old  man,  who 
hadn't  a  word  to  cast  at  a  dog.  There  was 
something  so  unusual  both  in  his  vehement 
words  and  his  excited  gestures,  that,  one  by 
one,  they  slunk  out  of  the  miserable  room  in 
silence,  leaving  him  and  Bess  to  the  task  of 
bringing  back  the  fainting  woman  to  conscious- 
ness. She  was  still  clutching  the  letter  con- 
vulsively in  her  ringers ;  but,  as  Bess  opened 
them  to  chafe  the  palms  of  her  cold  hands,  it 
fluttered  down  upon  the  floor.  Euclid  picked 
it  up,  and  carried  it  to  the  light  of  the  candle, 
which  somebody  had  brought  in,  and  left  upon 
the  chimney-piece. 

"Who's  it  from?"  asked  Bess  anxiously. 
"  Is  it  from  Davy  ? " 

"Ah!     'David   Fell,  your  lovin'   son,'"  he 


NOT  GOD'S  WILL?  75 

read ;  "  but  it  comes  from  jaL !  He's  in 
jail ! " 

Euclid's  gray  old  head  dropped,  and  his  voice 
sank  into  a  hoarse  murmur.  It  was  no  longer 
a  wonder  to  him  that  Mrs.  Fell  had  fallen  into 
a  death-like  swoon.  The  workhouse  was  terri- 
ble; but  the  jail  was  a  lower  depth  still.  He 
stood  silent  for  a  few  minutes  thinking.  David 
had  always  been  a  sort  of  favorite  with  him  :  he 
liked  his  bright,  boyish  face,  and  his  merry 
whistle  as  he  stepped  briskly  about.  And  the 
lad  had  often  carried  his  basket  for  him,  and 
shouted  "  Creases  ! "  with  his  clear  young  voice, 
when  his  own  throat  was  dry  and  husky  with 
crying  them  all  day  about  the  streets.  But  now 
David  Fell  was  a  jail-bird  ! 

Presently  there  came  to  his  ear  the  feeble 
murmur  of  his  name  from  David's  mother ;  and 
he  hastened  to  her  side,  looking  down  on  her 
ashy  face  with  a  strange  gentleness  in  his 
sunken  eyes. 

"  Please  read  it  up  loud,"  she  said  in  a  labo- 
rious whisper,  as  if  she  had  scarcely  strength  to 
form  the  words  with  her  trembling  lips.  Euclid 
read  the  few  lines  in  a  measuied  voice,  giv- 


7<5  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

ing  every  word  its  fullest  length ;  and  then  he 
folded  it  up  again,  and  laid  it  down  near  the 
mother's  hand. 

"It's  only  for  beggin'l"  he  cried.  "Three 
months  for  beggin'  for  his  mother!  God  help 
us  all !  There's  something  wrong  somewhere. 
Them  justices  must  have  hearts  like  mine,  I 
s'pose;  yet  they  sent  Davy  to  jail  for  three 
months  for  beggin'  for  his  mother !  If  they'd 
only  take  the  time  for  to  see  what  they'd  done  ! 
But  there !  they  don't  take  the  time,  or  they'd 
never  punish  a  lad  like  David,  the  son  of  a  de- 
cent, hard-workin'  woman,  as  was  left  a  widow 
with  two  children  to  keep.  God  help  us  all ! " 

"  It's  only  for  beggin' ! "  murmured  Mrs.  Fell, 
with  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks,  —  "  onlj 
for  beggin' ! " 

"Don't  you  take  on  too  much,"  urged  Euclid. 
"  He'll  come  home  all  right,  and  I'll  look  after 
the  lad  for  you." 

But  it  was  hard  for  Mrs.  Fell  to  comfort  her- 
self about  David.  It  was  no  uncommon  event 
for  boys  in  their  street  to  get  into  jail ;  but  it 
was  almost  always  for  stealing,  and  she  knew 
no  one  would  believe  that  David  had  been  sent 


NOT  GOD'S  WILL?  77 

there  for  begging  only.  How  Blackett  would 
glory  and  triumph  in  it !  His  elder  sons  were 
known  to  be  thieves,  and  he  was  constantly 
pushing  and  urging  Roger  into  the  same 
course,  in  the  hope  of  getting  him  off  his  hands. 
Yet  it  had  never  once  crossed  her  mind  that 
her  own  boy  Davy  could  ever  be  in  prison. 
His  father  had  been  an  honest,  industrious 
artisan,  priding  himself  on  never  touching  his 
neighbor's  goods  by  so  much  as  a  finger ;  and 
she  had  not  thought  of  David  failing,  under  any 
stress  of  temptation,  to  follow  in  his  steps. 
David  was  no  thief ;  but  still  he  was  in  jail ! 
She  kept  murmuring  to  herself,  "  It's  only  for 
beggin' ! "  But  was  the  bitterness  lessened  to 
her  that  her  only  son  had  met  with  such  a  pen- 
alty for  so  slight  a  fault  ?  He  would  come  out 
into  the  world  branded  as  if  he  had  been  a  thief, 
with  the  shame  of  a  jail  clinging  to  him  through 
the  rest  of  his  life. 

Euclid  and  Victoria  were  very  good  to  her  in 
her  fresh  trouble,  and  helped  her  as  far  as  their 
means  allowed;  the  little  store  of  money  for 
Victoria's  burial  suffering  thereby.  Many  of 
the  neighbors,  too,  thought  of  her,  and  brought 


78  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

her  from  time  to  time  a  morsel  of  their  own  not 
over-abundant  food.  Even  Blackett  offered  her 
help,  which  she  turned  away  from  with  a  sick 
heart.  She  was  not  quite  so  starved  and  friend- 
less as  she  had  been  before  her  desperate  cir- 
cumstances were  discovered  ;  but  she  felt  more 
heart-broken,  and  there  was  none  to  comfort 
her.  Victoria  repeated  her  hymns  and  verses 
to  her;  but  they  seemed  words  without  meaning 
in  her  great  sorrow.  She  had  set  before  her  one 
aim,  —  to  see  her  children  start  in  life  honest 
and  blameless,  as  their  father  had  been  before 
them.  Night  and  day  she  had  toiled  and  de- 
nied herself  to  this  end.  She  had  given  herself 
no  rest,  but  had  struggled  on  through  grievous 
pain,  and  in  great  darkness  of  spirit ;  and  she 
had  failed.  The  hard  battle  had  been  fought, 
and  she  was  conquered. 

"  Davy  'ud  have  made  a  good  man,"  she 
moaned  to  herself  through  the  long,  sleepless 
nights,  as  she  thought  of  him  in  jail.  "He'd 
have  growed  up  like  his  father,  if  I  could  ha' 
kep'  up  another  two-three  years.  It's  come  too 
soon  on  me.  But  now  he's  got  a  sully  and  a 
stain  on  him  as'll  never  wash  off,  live  as  long 


NOT  GOD'S  ,VILL?  79 

as  he  may.  He's  been  in  jail,  folks'll  say, 
And  whatever'll  become  o'  Bess  if  Davy  goes 
wrong  ?  He'd  have  kep'  her  up  if  he'd  been  a 
good  man.  O  Lord !  he'd  have  made  a  good 
man,  only  for  this.  And  now  he's  in  jail ! " 

Bess  was  all  that  was  left  to  her,  and  she 
could  scarcely  bear  to  let  her  go  out  of  her 
sight.  Blackett,  who  swore  and  raged  at  every 
one  else,  was  beginning  to  speak  kindly  to  Bess, 
and  this  filled  the  heart  of  the  poor  dying 
mother  with  unutterable  terror.  She  had  often 
been  proud  of  her  child's  dark  eyes  and  pretty 
hair,  and  thought  of  her  own  face  when  David 
Fell  was  courting  her.  Oh,  if  Davy  was  "cut 
at  home  again,  always  with  Bess,  unconsciously 
shielding  her  from  untold  dangers !  Suppose 
even  that  she  died  before  Davy's  time  was  up ! 
If  she  should  never,  never  see  her  boy's  face 
again ! "  And  to  leave  Bess  alone,  quite  alone  ! 

It  would  have  been  a  hard  and  bitter  sorrow 
to  leave  her  children,  if  she  had  a  good  hope  of 
their  doing  well ;  but,  oh  !  how  infinitely  harder 
and  more  bitter  it  was  to  die  while  David  was 
in  jail,  and  when  Blackett  was  speaking  kindly 
to  little  Bess ! 


8C  IN   PRISON   AKd   OuT. 

Once  she  tried  .0  say,  "  It's  God's  will,  and 
he  knows  best ; "  but  something  seemed  to  stop 
her.  She  could  not  utter  the  words,  even  to 
her  c  wn  heart 


BESS  BEGINS   BUSINESS.  8 1 


CHAPTER  VII 

BESS    BEGINS   BUSINESS. 

BESS  had  not  forgotten  that  the  redemp- 
tion of  her  mother's  wedding-ring  rested 
upon  her,  and  that  she  had  pledged  herself  to 
get  it  out  of  pawn.  She  tried  in  variDus  ways 
to  get  some  work  to  do ;  but  she  had  neither 
strength  nor  skill  to  make  her  work  valuable. 
At  last  she  took  counsel  with  Victoria,  who 
proposed  to  her  to  go  out  selling  water-cresses 
like  her  father ;  and  he  offered  to  take  her  with 
him  to  the  market  where  he  bought  his  daily 
supply,  and,  start  her  on  a  beat  of  her  own, 
apart  from  him,  as  he  could  not  afford  to  divide 
Us  customers  and  his  profits.  A  few  pence,  a 
few  halfpence  even,  would  set  her  up  in  this 
line  of  business  ;  and,  with  luck,  she  might  earn 
suffirient  to  keep  herself,  and  redeem  the  ring. 


82  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

It  may  be  pleasant  to  rise  at  four  o'clock  in 
June,  and,  quitting  the  thick  and  nauseous 
atmosphere  of  the  overcrowded  and  unventi- 
lated  dwelling-place,  to  escape  into  the  sweet 
dewy  freshness  of  the  early  morning,  which, 
even  in  the  streets,  is  scented  with  the  breath 
of  country  hay-fields  and  blossoming  gardens : 
but  four  o'clock  on  a  winter's  morning,  when 
Bess  hurriedly  dressed  herself,  without  a  light, 
in  the  thin  and  tattered  clothes,  which  were  all 
she  had,  and  thrust  her  naked  feet  into  her 
mother's  old  boots ;  and,  kissing  her  mother, 
who  must  lie  still  and  lonely  till  she  came  back, 
stepped  out  into  the  half-slush,  half-frost  of  the 
pavement,  and  the  biting  air,  —  this  was  a  sharp 
test  of  her  endurance.  But  Euclid  was  waiting 
for  her  with  his  basket,  and  she  trudged  along 
at  his  side  through  the  slush  and  the  frost, 
carrying  an  old  battered  tea-tray  a  neighbor 
had  lenl  her  the  night  before.  It  was  nearly 
three  miles  to  the  market.  Early  as  the  hour 
was,  and  dark  as  midnight  still,  life  had  begun 
again  a1  the  East  End;  and  many  a  shivering 
fellow-being,  shuffling  along  the  slippery  pave- 
ment, and  maintaining  a  sombre  silence,  passed 


BESS   BEGINS   BUSINESS.  8j 

them  like  ghosts.  Bess  had  never  been  out  at 
this  hour  before,  and  she  kept  close  to  Euclid's 
side. 

The  old  man,  too,  was  silent :  he  felt  put  out 
oy  the  presence  of  a  companion.  For  twenty- 
five  years,  ever  since  he  had  recovered  partiaHy 
from  the  accident  that  disabled  him  as  a  labor- 
er, he  had  taken  this  walk  alone  through  sum- 
mer and  winter ;  and  it  was  bewildering  to  him 
to  hear  the  light  footsteps  of  Bess  pattering 
beside  him.  He  had  so  long  lived  altogether 
without  intercourse  with  his  neighbors,  that  he 
was  surprised,  and  not  altogether  pleased,  to 
find  himself  taking  an  interest  in  Mrs.  Fell 
and  David  and  Bess.  Might  not  such  an  in- 
terest come  between  him  and  the  sole  aim  of 
his  life  ?  For,  if  he  yielded  too  much  to  the 
stirrings  of  compassion  and  pity  in  his  heart, 
some  danger  might  arise  to  his  slowly  accumu- 
lated hoard,  now  lying  safely  under  Victoria's 
head. 

Yet  Euclid  felt  that  he  could  not  stand  by 
and  see  his  neighbor  die  of  starvation  under 
his  very  eyes.  No,  no :  that  could  never  be. 
He  glanced  at  Bess,  as  they  passed  beneath  a 


84  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

lamp,  and  caught  a  half-smile  of  trustfulness  in 
him  shining  in  her  eyes,  like  the  look  of  his 
little  children,  dead  long  ago,  who  had  been 
used  to  run  to  meet  him  when  they  heard  his 
foot  on  the  stairs.  They  were  all  gone  to 
heaven  now,  where  his  wife  was.  He  had  no 
idea  of  heaven  beyond  a  vague  fancy  dwelling 
in  his  brain,  that  there  would  be  somewhere  — 
out  of  the  world  or  in  the  world,  he  did  not 
know  —  a  little  cottage  on  a  hillside,  such  as  the 
early  home  he  dimly  remembered,  where  they 
would  all  live  together  again,  and  where  there 
would  be  no  winter,  and  no  more  hunger  or 
sorrow ;  no  parish  pay,  and  no  workhouse.  His 
lost  wife  would  be  young  again,  and  all  his 
children  little  ones  ;  and  there  would  be  a  gar- 
den for  him  to  work  in,  lying  round  the  cottage. 
That  was  Euclid's  heaven. 

He  was  still  dreaming  of  it  when  they 
reached  the  market,  and  joined  a  crowd  of 
old  folks  and  young  children  waiting  for  the 
gates  to  be  opened.  It  was  not  yet  five  o'clock, 
and  the  yellow  glare  of  a  few  gas-lamps  shed 
a  dim  light  upon  the  scene.  The  crowd  was 
very  quiet  and  subdued.  All  who  were  there 


BESS   BEGINS   BUSINESS.  85 

were  feeble  folk,  and  did  not  care  to  waste  theif 
strength  in  noise  and  pushing.  As  each  old 
person  or  little  child  came,  they  took  theif 
place  as  near  to  the  gate  as  they  could  get ;  and 
most  of  them  sank  into  silent  waiting.  The 
poorest  of  the  decent  poor  were  there,  —  those 
who  were  willing  to  struggle  to  the  bitter  end 
to  earn  an  honest  living,  and  keep  out  of  the 
workhouse.  Euclid  did  as  the  rest  did,  and, 
with  Bess  beside  him,  stood  in  patient  mute- 
ness till  he  could  make  his  purchases  for  the 
day. 

As  soon  as  the  gates  were  opened,  there  was 
a  quiet  crush  through  them.  Euclid  took  more 
care  in  buying  a  stock  of  cresses  for  Bess  than 
for  himself;  though  he  was  fastidious  in  his 
choice,  passing  from  hamper  to  hamper,  and 
peering  closely  at  the  green  leaves  to  detect 
any  specks  upon  them.  As  soon  as  his  pur- 
chases were  made,  he  hurried  Bess  away  to  the 
steps  of  a  church  close  by,  where  he  showed 
her  how  to  make  up  her  bunches,  and  slung  the 
old  tray  ror.nd  her  neck  by  a  bit  of  cord  he 
drew  out  of  his  pocket. 

"Now  we  must  be  as  sharp  as  needles  and 


86  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

pins,"  he  said.  "I've  heard  somewhere  of  a 
early  bird  as  picked  up  a  early  worm.  Folks'll 
be  gettin'  their  breakfasses  soon,  and  we  must 
be  in  time  to  catch  'em  at  it.  Don't  you 
waste  your  time  along  the  bettermost  streets, 
Bess ;  but  stick  to  the  courts  and  the  mewses 
and  the  streets  where  workin'  men  live.  Rich 
folks  ain't  thinkin'  o'  gettin'  out  o'  bed  yet ;  and 
they  don't  eat  creases  for  breakfast,  but  ham 
and  eggs,  and  hot  things.  Mewses  are  good 
places  in  general.  Walk  pretty  slow,  two  mile 
an  hour ;  and  keep  your  eye  on  the  doors  and 
windows  for  fear  somebody's  beckonin'  at  you. 
There  now !  I'll  stand  at  the  end  o'  this  here 
street,  and  hearken  how  you  can  cry,  '  Creases  ! 
Fresh  water-creases  1 '  till  you're  out  o'  my 
sight." 

Euclid  stood  watching  Bess,  with  her  trayful 
of  cresses,  as  she  paced  slowly  along  the  street, 
her  clear,  pleasant  voice  singing,  rather  than 
crying,  the  familiar  words.  Then  he  turned 
away  with  a  heavy  sigh.  His  own  voice 
sounded  husky  and  hollow  in  his  ears  as  he 
shambled  along  his  customary  beat,  drawling 
mournfully,  "Cre-shel  cre-she!"  He  felt  an 


BESS   BEGINS   BUSINESS.  87 

older  man  than  usual,  as  though  some  addition- 
al burden  of  years  had  suddenly  fallen  upon  his 
bent  shoulders  and  bowed-down  head.  Yet  he 
was  only  in  his  sixtieth  year,  and  there  was 
much  work  and  much  power  of  endurance  left 
in  him  still.  He  had  never  starved  quite  as 
much  as  he  could ;  and  his  old  clothing  had 
never  been  as  utterly  tattered  as  they  might  be. 
But  he  saw  depths  of  poverty  below  even  him  ; 
and  for  once  his  heart  felt  heavy  enough  to  sink 
him  and  Victoria  into  those  lowest  deeps. 

"  The  parish ! "  he  muttered  to  himself  half 
aloud,  as  he  rested  his  dry  throat  for  a  minute 
Or  two,  "  the  parish  !  And  be  parted  from  her ! 
Not  bury  Victoria  in  her  own  coffin,  like  the 
rest  of  'em  !  The  parish  !  God  help  these  old 
legs  o'  mine  !  " 

As  if  some  new  strength  had  been  breathed 
into  him,  Euclid  started  on  again,  crying  his 
street-cry  with  more  energy  than  before.  The 
thought  of  the  parish  had  run  like  a  stimulant 
through  his  whole  frame.  He  had  more  luck 
than  usual,  and  sold  so  many  bunches  of  cresses 
that  he  felt  justified  in  buying  one  of  the  best 
of  Yarmouth  bloaters,  which  he  rhose  with 


88  IN    PRISON   AND   OUT. 

close  cautiousness,  as  if  he  was  difficult  to 
please,  at  a  shop  he  passed  on  his  way  home. 
It  was  for  a  relish  for  Victoria's  tea,  more  than 
for  hiuself.  He  had  made  as  much  as  two 
shillings  by  his  day's  toil  and  his  ten  miles' 
cramp  through  the  slushy  streets ;  and,  after  he 
had  taken  enough  for  the  day's  food  and  rent, 
there  was  as  much  as  ninepence  to  put  by. 

"  Let  us  look  over  our  little  store,"  he  said, 
when  their  leisurely  tea  was  ended. 

He  was  counting  up  the  silver  and  copper 
coins  on  the  empty  soap-box,  turned  on  end, 
which  served  as  a  table  when  it  was  not  wanted 
as  a  seat,  when  a  low  knock  was  heard  at  the 
door.  There  was  neither  lock  nor  latch  upon 
it,  the  sole  fastening  being  a  stick  passed 
through  a  staple  and  holdfast  within.  But  there 
was  no  other  room  in  the  roof,  and  the  steep 
ladder-like  staircase  was  seldom  trodden  by  any 
one  but  themselves.  Euclid  made  haste  to 
gather  the  money  into  the  handkerchief  that 
usually  held  it,  before  Victoria  opened  the  door. 
But  Bess,  who  was  the  untimely  visitor,  had 
already  snen  the  heap  of  coins  through  a  chink 
in  the  old  door,  and  heard  their  jingle  as  E  iciiJ 


BESS   BEGINS   BUSINESS.  89 

swept  them  out  of  sight  She  stood  thunder- 
struck  on  the  door-sill,  gazing  in  with  large, 
wide-open  eyes 

"What  is  it,  Bess  ?  "  asked  Victoria. 

"  Oh !  mother's  sent  me  up  to  say  as  I've 
had  good  luck,"  she  stammered,  "and  it's 
thanks  to  you,  Mr.  Euclid  ;  and,  oh  !  please  may 
I  go  again  to-morrow  morning  ? " 

"Ay,  child,"  answered  Euclid  shortly. 

Bess  went  downstairs  with  a  far  slower  slep 
than  she  had  gone  up.  Never  in  her  life  had 
she  seen  so  much  money  at  one  time  as  when 
she  had  put  her  eye  to  the  chink  in  the  door, 
and  peeped  in  on  her  friends.  It  seemed  to  hex 
as  if  the  whole  end  of  the  soap-box  had  been 
covered  with  it.  Mr.  Euclid,  in  spite  of  his  old 
clothing  and  his  poor  attic,  was  then  a  rich 
man !  If  such  riches  could  be  made  by  selling 
water-cresses,  then  she  too  was  on  the  high-road 
to  be  rich.  Already  to-day  she  had  earned 
mors  money  than  she  had  ever  owned  before ; 
and  her  mother  had  smiled  for  the  first  time 
since  David  went  out  begging  when  she  poured 
the  halfpence  into  her  lap.  Like  Euclid,  she 
had  trudged  through  the  mud  of  the  rartially 


9O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

frozen  streets  for  nine  or  ten  miles,  besides  her 
walk  to  the  market ;  and  her  limbs  were  weary, 
and  her  throat  somewhat  tired.  But  her  heart 
was  very  light.  Then  the  wonderful  sight  of 
heaps  of  money  on  Euclid's  table  had  dazzled 
her.  Why  had  they  never  thought  of  this  trade 
before  ?  A  thousand  pities  it  was  ;  for,  if  they 
had  begun  early  enough,  she  and  David  might 
now  have  heaps  of  money  too,  like  Euclid  and 
Victoria. 

Bess  was  up  again  before  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  was  waiting  for  Euclid  when  he 
came  downstairs.  She  was  eager  to  be  away 
making  her  fortune.  By  and  by  Euclid  grew 
used  to  her  company,  and  liked  to  hear  her  talk 
as  she  tripped  along  by  his  side.  Morning 
after  morning,  through  darkness  and  frost,  snow 
and  fog,  the  gray-headed  man  and  the  young 
girl  started  off  on  their  toilsome  tramp, — the 
one  with  the  uncomplaining  fortitude  of  old  age, 
the  other  with  the  hopeful  courage  of  youth. 

"  It'll  not  be  such  a  lonesome  shop  when  I'm 
gone  now,  father,"  said  Victoria  one  day, 

'•'  Why  so,  Victoria,  my  dear  ? "  he  asked, 

"There's  Bess,"  she  answered,  sm'Jing,  but 


BESS  BEGINS   BUSINESS.  91 

somewhat  sadly.  "You'1!  take  to  her,  daddy. 
You  two  'ud  be  two  lonesome  ones  if  you  didn't 
take  to  one  another.  Mrs.  Fell's  very  near  her 
end  ;  and  I  am,  p'rhaps." 

"  Do  you  feel  worse,  Victoria  ? "  he  inquired 
anxiously. 

"  Not  worse,"  she  said ;  "  but  it's  so  long,  the 
winter  is ;  and  there's  so  much  dark,  and  I  lie 
here  doin'  nothin'.  If  it  wasn't  for  mother's 
verses  and  hymns,  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do. 
I've  been  sayin'  one  of  'em  all  day." 

"  Which  is  it,  my  dear  ? "  he  asked. 

Victoria's  voice  fell  into  a  low  and  solemn 
tone  as  she  said  these  words  :  — 

"  There  is  a  house,  not  made  with  hands, 

Eternal  and  on  high ; 
And  here  my  spirit  waiting  stands 
Till  God  shall  bid  it  fly." 

"  Ay !  she  were  always  a-sayin'  them  lines," 
Euclid  murmured  softly,  "  afore  you  was  born, 
my  dear." 

"There's  enough  money  to  pay  for  my 
buryin'  now,  isn't  there,  father?"  askec*  Vic- 
toria, 


92  IN   PRISON   Ai<JD   OUT. 

"To  be  sure  there  is,  my  dear;  lots  enough," 
he  answered,  "  and  a  bit  o'  black  for  Bess,  if 
that'll  be  any  comfort  to  you." 

"  She's  strong,  and  can  help  you  to  get  a 
livin',"  observed  Victoria,  almost  joyously ; 
"  and  there'll  be  somebody  to  see  as  you  have 
a  coffin  of  your  own  too,  daddy.'  I'm  glad  to 
think  you'll  take  to  Bess  when  I'm  gone." 

"  My  work'll  be  done  then,"  sai  d  Euclid.  "  I 
promised  your  mother  what  I'd  do,  and  I've 
a'most  done  it.  Then  I'm  ready  to  go,  It's  a 
queer  shop,  this  world  is  1 " 


THE    PRISON-CROP   ON   A   YOUNG   HEAD.      Q3 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  PRISON-CROP   ON   A  YOUNG   HEAD. 

IN  three  calendar  months  after  David  Fell 
was  committed  to  jail  for  begging,  he  was 
released,  and  sent  out  again  to  the  old  life. 
He  had  been  regularly  supplied  with  food,  kept 
from  the  cold  of  the  wintry  days  and  nights, 
and  properly  exercised  with  a  careful  regard  to 
his  health.  He  had  never  had  three  months  of 
so  much  physical  comfort  before ;  and  he  had 
grown  a  good  deal  both  in  size  and  strength. 
Moreover  he  had  been  diligently  taught  in 
school,  and  could  read  and  write  very  much 
better,  and  with  more  ease,  than  when  he  had 
written  his  short  letter  to  his  mother.  He  had 
learned  cobbling,  and  could  mend  a  pair  of 
boots  quite  creditably.  The  governor  of  the 
jail  enumerated  these  advantages  to  him  as  he 
gave  him  a  few  words  of  parting  counsel. 


94  IN    PRISON    AND   OUT. 

"Now,  my  lad,"  he  continued,  "don't  let  ma 
see  you  here  again,  or  hear  of  you  being  in 
trouble  elsewhere.  This  is  the  second  time 
you've  been  in  jail "  — 

"Please,  sir,"  interrupted  David,  with  energy, 
"I  never  was  in  jail  before.  It  was  another 
boy,  not  me.  I've  done  nothin'  worse  than 
beggin'." 

"  Don't  go  away  with  a  lie  on  your  tongue," 
said  the  governor  sternly.  "  It's  a  sad  thing  to 
break  the  laws  of  your  country ;  but  it's  worse 
to  break  God's  laws.  '  Thou  shalt  not  steal ! 
thou  shalt  not  lie ! '  are  his  laws.  '  Thou  shalt 
not  beg,'  is  your  country's  law.  Keep  them  in 
mind,  and  you'll  not  get  into  trouble  again." 

David  heard  the  prison-gate  close  behind  him, 
leaving  him  free  again  in  the  open  streets,  with 
an  odd  feeling  of  strangeness  and  timidity 
mingled  with  his  delight.  The  other  prisoners 
released  at  the  same  time  quickly  vanished  out 
of  sight,  as  if  they  did  not  care  to  be  seen  under 
the  jail-walls.  But  David  lingered,  half  bewil- 
dered and  half  fascinated,  gazing  up  at  the 
strong,  grim  edifice,  with  its  massive  doors  and 
small,  closely  barred  windows.  It  had  been  his 


THE  PRISON-CROP  ON  A  YOUNG  HEAD.   95 

home  for  three  months.  He  was  no  longer  a 
stranger  to  it  or  its  ways.  If  he  should  ever 
come  there  again,  he  could  fall  at  once  into  its 
customs  and  rules,  and  would  need  very  little, 
if  any,  instruction  from  its  warders.  Just  now 
it  seemed  more  familiar  and  less  formidable  to 
him  than  the  narrow,  dirty,  squalid  street  where 
his  former  neighbors  lived,  and  his  mother,  and 
little  Bess. 

He  had  some  miles  to  go,  and  it  was  almost 
dusk  when  he  reached  his  own  neigborhood. 
But,  though  he  was  stronger  and  better  fitted 
for  labor  than  when  he  left  it  three  months  ago, 
he  did  not  turn  boldly  into  the  street,  whistling 
some  gay  tune  as  he  marched  along,  and  calling 
aloud  to  this  neighbor  and  that,  ready  for  all 
sorts  of  boyish  pranks,  and  equally  ready  to 
render  little  acts  of  help  and  kindness  to  any 
one  who  needed  them.  He  waited  till  night 
fell,  and  then  went  slinking  down  close  to  the 
walls,  and  keeping  as  much  in  the  shadow  as 
possible.  Blackett's  door  was  open,  and  he 
dare  not  face  Blackett.  He  had  always  held  up 
his  head  high  above  Blackett's  sons,  except 
Roger ;  and  he  knew  be  th  father  and  sons  hated 


96  IN    PRISON   AND   OUT. 

him  for  it.  Did  the  neighbors  know  that  he 
had  been  in  prison?  If  they  did  not,  his 
closely  cropped  head,  with  the  dark  hair  grow- 
ing like  short  fur  all  over  it,  would  hetray  him 
at  once. 

He  stood  in  a  dark  corner  over  against  the 
house,  watching  its  inmates  pass  to  and  fro. 
There  was  old  Euclid  going  in  with  his  empty 
basket :  it  was  quite  empty ;  so  he  must  have 
had  a  good  day.  And  presently  he  saw  the 
glimmer  of  a  candle  in  the  garret-window. 
What  would  Victoria  say  when  she  saw  him 
and  his  prison-crop  for  the  first  time?  He 
was  almost  as  much  afraid  of  her  and  Euclid 
as  he  was  of  Blackett.  Could  he  make  them 
believe  that  he  had  only  been  in  jail  for  beg- 
ging? Surely  they  would  not  be  too  hard  on 
him  for  that !  Yet  he  felt  the  old  glow  of 
shame  again  at  the  thought  of  going  out  to 
beg. 

His  mother  would  believe  it,  and  know  it  to 
be  true.  He  was  longing  for  the  sight  of  her; 
but  he  dare  not  go  past  Blackett's  open  door. 
The  tears  smarted  under  his  eyehas  as  he 
thought  of  how  soon  now  he  was  going  to  see 


THE  PRISON-CROP  ON  A  YOUNG  HEAD.   97 

her,  Then  a  dark  dread  crossed  his  mind. 
He  had  been  away  for  three  months  ;  and  sup- 
pose his  mother  should  be  dead  !  Oh  !  if  that 
could  be!  Dead  and  buried,  and  he  never  to 
see  her  again  ! 

At  length  Blackett  came  out,  and  staggered 
up  the  street  towards  the  enticing  spirit-vaults 
at  the  corner.  Now  was  the  moment.  He 
crept  cautiously  to  the  entrance,  and  then 
darted  through  the  lighted  passage  almost  at 
a  bound.  In  an  instant  his  hand  was  on  the 
latch ;  and,  flinging  open  his  mother's  door,  he 
rushed  in,  panting,  and  closed  it  after  him,  as 
if  fearful  of  being  pursued.  He  could  hardly 
see  for  a  moment,  though  there  was  a  candle 
in  the  room.  But,  when  he  looked  round,  there 
was  his  mother  lying  on  the  bare  sacking  of 
her  miserable  bed,  her  face  pale  as  death,  and 
her  sunkep  eyes,  with  a  famished,  ravenous 
expression  in  them,  fastened  eagerly  on  him. 
They  told  a  tale  of  terrible  suffering.  It 
seemed  to  David  as  if  he  had  almost  for- 
fotten  his  mother's  face  while  he  had  been  in 
jail,  and  that  now  he  saw  it  afresh,  with  all 
the  story  of  her  pain  and  anguish  printed 


98  IN   PRISON   AND    OUT. 

upon  it.  He  stood  motionless,  staring  at  her ; 
and  she  lifted  herself  up  on  the  bed,  and  held 
out  her  arms  to  him. 

"  O  Davy,  my  boy !  Davy ! "  she  cried, 
"  come  to  me !  come  quickly ! " 

With  a  deep  groan,  such  as  is  rarely  wrung 
from  the  lips  of  a  man,  the  boy  flung  himself 
into  his  mother's  arms;  and  the  mother  bore 
the  shock  of  agony  it  caused  her  without  a  cry. 

This  was  her  son,  her  first-born.  He  was 
the  baby  who  had  first  lain  in  her  bosom,  now 
so  tortured  with  ceaseless  pain,  and  who  had 
filled  her  whole  heart  with  love  and  joy.  She 
could  recollect  how  his  father  had  looked  down 
upon  them  both  with  mingled  pride  and  shy 
ness.  Sha  almost  forgot  her  pain  in  the 
rapture  of  fondling  him  once  again.  Her 
shrivelled,  wasted  hand,  whose  fingers  were 
drawn  up  with  long  years  of  toil,  stroked  his 
poor  head,  with  its  prison-crop  of  hair,  where 
the  baby's  flaxen  curls  had  grown ;  and  her  lips 
were  pressed  again  and  again  to  his  face,  She 
could  not  let  him  go. 

"I  was  doin'  nothin*  but  beggin'  for  you, 
mother,"  he  sobbed  out  at  last. 


THE    PRISON-CROP    ON    A    YOUNG   HEAD         99 

"I  know,  Davy;  I  know,"  she  said,  sinking 
back  exhausted,  but  still  holding  fas^  his  hand, 
and  devouring  him  with  her  eyes.  "  It  couldn't 
be  no  sin,  God  in  heaven  knows.  You'll  make 
a  good  man  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  like  your  father, 
Davy.  You're  as  like  him  as  like  can  be ! " 

She  lay  looking  at  him  with  a  smile  on  her 
face.  So  much  care  had  been  taken  of  him  in 
the  jail,  that  he  looked  more  like  a  man,  or  at 
least  gave  more  promise  of  growing  into  a 
strong,  capable  man  like  his  father,  than  he  had 
ever  done  whilst  he  starved  on  scanty  fare  at 
home.  His  face,  too,  had  lost  its  boyish  care- 
lessness, and  wore  an  air  of  thought,  almost  of 
gloom,  such  as  sat  on  most  men's  faces. 

"Maybe -I  ought  to  ha'  gone  into  the  house," 
she  said,  as  her  eyes  caught  sight  of  David's 
short,  dark  hair.  "  It's  bad  for  folks  to  say 
you  ever  went  a-beggin',  and  was  took  up 
for  it.  But  I  never  knew  nobody  go  into  the 
house  as  I  should  like  to  be  with,  or  have 
Bess  be  with.  Most  of  the  folks  as  have  gone 
out  of  our  street  *ud  shame  the  bad  place  itself ; 
and  it  'ud  be  worse  than  dyin'  to  live  among 
em  all  day,  and  all  night  too.  I  always  raid, 


IOO  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

and  I  promised  father  when  he  was  dyin',  I 
swore  a  oath  to  him,  as  long  as  I  cou'id  stand 
at  a  tub,  I'd  never  mix  myself  up  with  such  a 
lot,  or  let  his  boy  and  girl  go  among  'em.  But 
maybe  I  ought  to  ha'  given  in,  instead  of  letthi' 
you  go  a-beggin',"  she  added,  with  a  profound 
sigh. 

"  No,  no,  mother :  don't  you  fret  about  me," 
answered  David.  "Why!  I've  learnt  a  trade 
in  —  there,"  he  said,  avoiding  the  name  "jail." 
"  And  I  know  how  to  work  now,  and  I'll  keep 
you  and  Bess.  Sometimes  I  used  to  think, 
s'pose  they'd  only  taught  me  outside,  without 
goin'  inside  that  place !  I'd  have  learnt  it  with 
more  heart,  and  never  got  the  bad  name  as 
folks  will  give  me  now.  I  can  mend  boots  and 
shoes  prime  now;  and  I  can  read  and  write 
almost  like  a  scholar  But  I  shall  never  get 
over  being  in  there ! " 

"  Oh,  you  will,  you  will,  my  lad ! "  cried  his 
mother  faintly  and  sadly, 

"No,  I  can't  never  forget  it,"  he  said,  with 
a  look  of  shame  and  sorrow  on  his  face. 
"Father's  name  was  always  good,  and  mine 
never  can  be.  Mother,  if  they'd  only  tried  to 


THE    PRISON-CROP    ON    A    YOUNG    HEAD.     !O1 

find  out  ii  I  spoke  true !  But  they  didn't  take 
uo  time  or  trouble.  I  didn't  know  where  I  was 
afore  the  magistrate  said,  '  Three  months  ! ' 
And  they  bundled  me  away  as  if  I  weren't 
worth  taking  trouble  about.  I'm  a  jail-bird 
now." 

"  No,  no  ! "  sobbed  his  mother. 

"That's  what  the  neighbors'll  call  me,"  he 
went  on.  "And  Blackett'll  crow  over  me. 
They'll  never  believe  I  was  only  beggin'.  I 
feel  as  if  I  couldn't  hold  my  head  up  to  face 
them  or  Bess.  Where's  Bess,  mother  ? " 

But,  as  he  spoke,  Bess  came  in,  and,  with  a 
cry  of  delight,  ran  to  him,  and  flung  her  arms 
round  his  neck.  He  could  not  rid  himself  of 
those  clinging  arms ;  and  he  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  weeping  as  Bess  kissed  him  again  and 
again. 

"They  were  wicked,  cruel  people  as  sent 
you  to  jail,  Davy,"  she  repeated  over  and 
ever  again,  —  "cruel  and  wicked!  cruel  and 
wicked ! " 

It  was  some  minutes  before  they  could  speak 
to  oie  another  in  any  other  words,  or  before 
Bess  remembered  on  what  errand  she  had  been 
absent  when  David  came  home. 


IO2  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

"They  can't  let  us  have  the  ring  th's  even. 
ing,  mother,"  she  said  after  a  while.  "Mr. 
Quirk's  away  till  this  time  to-morrow ;  and 
Mrs.  Quirk  says  as  she  daren't  part  with  any 
o'  the  rings  without  him." 

"  What  ring  ? "  asked  David. 

"  Mother's  ring,"  answered  Bess. 

"  We  were  forced  to  part  with  it,  Davy,"  said 
his  mother  in  a  pleading  tone,  as  if  to  justify 
herself  to  him.  "I'd  clemmed  myself  till  I 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  every  think  else 
was  gone.  It  was  the  last  time  I  set  foot 
out  o'  doors.  I  carried  it  myself  to  Mr. 
Quirk's,  and  swore  as  I'd  redeem  it.  And 
'Bess  there  has  earned  money  to  redeem  it ; 
and  we  thought  we'd  get  it  back  to-night.  But 
ycu're  come  back  instead,  my  lad;  and  I  can 
bear  to  go  without  the  ring." 

His  mother's  wedding-ring  had  been  all  his 
life  to  him  a  sacred  thing,  —  the  only  sacred 
thins;  he  knew  of.  It  was  blended  with  all  his 
earliest  childish  thoughts  of  his  dead  father, 
whom  he  had  never  known,  but  of  whom  his 
mother  talked  so  often  of  an  evening  when 
work  was  done,  and  she  wore  the  ring,  and 


THE   PRISON-CROP   ON   A   YOUNG   HEAD.     IOJ 

when  the  glimmer  of  it  in  the  dim  firelight 
made  it  visible,  though  almost  all  else  was  in 
darkness.  All  the  inherent  superstition  and 
reverejice  for  sacred  symbols  common  to  our 
nature  centred  for  David  in  his  mother's  wed 
ding-ring.  He  knew  what  straits  of  gnawing 
hunger  Bess  and  his  mother  must  have  under- 
gone before  they  would  part  with  it ;  and  his 
bitterness  and  heaviness  of  heart  —  for  he  had 
left  jail  in  bitterness  and  heaviness  of  heart  — 
were  increased  tenfold  by  this  loss  of  her 
ring 

"We'll  have  it  to-morrow,"  he  said  in  a 
stern  and  passionate  voice. 

Yet  they  were  on  the  whole  happy  that  even- 
ing: it  was  so  much  to  be  together  again. 
Bess  had  plenty  to  tell  of  her  daily  tramps 
through  the  streets,  and  David  talked  of  his 
plans  for  the  future ;  whilst  their  mother  lis- 
tened to  them,  thankful  beyond  all  words  to 
have  her  boy  in  her  sight  once  more.  Even 
during  the  night,  when  she  heard  him  turning 
uneasily  to  and  fro  on  the  scanty  heap  of  straw 
they  had  managed  to  get  for  him  to  lie  on,  — 
so  hard  to  him  after  his  comfortable  hamirock 


IO4  IN    PRISON   AND    OUT. 

and  warm  rug  in  the  jail, — her  heart  felt  lighter 
than  it  had  done  for  many  months.  Her  pov- 
erty continued,  her  sore  pain  was  not  less  ago- 
nizing; but  David  was  at  home  again,  and  life 
was  once  more  dear  to  her. 


BROKEN-IIEARTED.  IO<» 


CHAPTER   IX. 

BROKEN-HEARTED. 

• 

BESS  was  up  as  usual  in  the  morning ;  and 
David  would  have  gone  with  her,  but  for 
Euclid.  He  shrank  from  meeting  any  of  the 
neighbors ;  and,  if  it  had  been  possible,  he  would 
have  remained  indoors  till  his  hair  had  grown 
long  again.  All  the  day  he  stayed  in  the  dark, 
unwholesome  room,  talking  at  times  with  his 
mother,  but  generally  sitting  silent,  with  his 
head  resting  on  his  hands.  The  hours  seemed 
endless.  Hunger  and  cold  he  had  borne  with 
courage,  and  he  could  do  so  still ;  but  shame  he 
could  not  bear.  Pride  in  a  good  name  was  the 
only  moral  lesson  he  had  been  taught ;  and  his 
good  name  was  gone.  His  mother  had  sym- 
pathy enough  to  guess  what  troubled  him  ;  but 
she  did  not  know  how  to  comfort  him.  There 


106  IN   PRISON   AND   OJT. 

was  a  vague,  indistinct  feeling  in  their  minds 
that  he  had  not  forfeited  his  good  name :  he  had 
been  robbed  of  it 

At  last  evening  came,  and  Bess  went  out 
again  to  redeem  the  precious  pledge.  Both 
David  and  his  mother  forgot  their  troubles  for 
a  brief  space  of  time  as  they  thought  of  seeing 
it  shine  once  more  on  her  hand,  so  wasted 
and  shrivelled  now,  and  so  different  from  the 
firm  young  hand  that  had  first  worn  it.  It  had 
been  a  brand-new  ring  when  David  Fell  bought 
it,  —  no  other  would  satisfy  the  proud  young 
artisan,  —  a  thick,  heavy  ring  of  gold,  such  as 
the  finest  lady  in  the  land  might  wear. 

"  It's  here,  mother ! "  cried  Bess,  running  m 
almost  breathless,  with  the  small,  precious 
packet  in  her  hand.  David  lighted  the  candle, 
and  held  it  beside  his  mother,  as  her  trembling 
fingers  unfolded  the  paper  in  which  it  was 
wrapped.  But  what  was  this?  A  thin,  bat- 
tered ring,  worn  almost  to  a  thread.  No  more 
like  tte  one  they  all  knew  so  well,  than  this 
bare  and  desolate  room  was  like  the  pleasant 
house  David  Fell  had  provided  for  his  young 
wife.  Mrs.  Fell  uttered  a  bitter  cry  of  dis- 
appointment and  dread. 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  1C; 

"O  Davy!"  she  cried,  "it isn't  mine!  it  isn't 
mine!" 

In  two  minutes  from  that  fatal  cry  of  despair, 
David,  panting,  bareheaded,  nearly  mad  with 
passion,  stood  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the 
pawn-shop.  There  was  no  need  to  enter  it ;  for 
Mr.  Quirk  was  pacing  to  and  fro  in  front  of  his 
premises,  inviting  the  passer-by  to  inspect  his 
goods.  He  was  a  short,  undersized,  knavish- 
looking  man.  David  confronted  him  with  a 
white  face  and  dilating  nostrils,  holding  out  the 
ring  to  him. 

"It  isn't  mother's!"  he  gasped.  "You've 
give  Bess  somebody  else's  ring.  This  ain  fc 
mother's  ring." 

"That's  Mary  Fell's  ring,"  drawled  Mr. 
Quirk  sneeringly,  and  as  coolly  as  if  he  had 
prepared  himself  for  the  charge,  "  LS  she 
pledged  here  to  me  two  months  ago.  That's 
her  ring." 

"  Give  me  my  mother's  own  ring !  "  shouted 
David,  every  nerve  and  muscle  tingling  with  all 
/he  force  and  energy  he  had  in  him.  '  Give  me 
her  ring,  you  swindling  thief ! " 

"It's  Mary  Fell's  ring,"  repeated  tne  pawn 


IO8  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

broker  stubbornly ;  "  and  Mary  Fell's  well 
known  as  a  thief  and  a  drunkard,  and  something 
worse." 

Scarcely  had  the  words  against  his  mother's 
good  name  been  pronounced,  before  David  had 
flung  himself  in  his  rage,  and  the  unusual  vigor 
he  had  brought  from  jail,  upon  the  puny  man, 
who  was  unprepared  for  the  attack.  The  boy 
and  the  man  were  not  ill  matched,  and  blow 
after  blow  was  given.  The  battered  old  ring 
fell  to  the  pavement,  and  was  trodden  under 
their  feet.  A  circle  of  spectators  gathered  as  if 
by  magic  about  them  in  an  instant,  none  ol 
whom  cared  to  interrupt  the  sport  such  a  con- 
test afforded.  There  were  cries  and  cheers  of 
encouragement  on  all  hands,  until  the  comba- 
tants fell,  David  uppermost. 

"What's  all  this  about?"  inquired  a  police- 
man, elbowing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and 
calmly  looking  on  for  a  minute,  whilst  David  still 
struck  hard  at  his  enemy,  who  was  struggling  up 
to  his  feet.  The  policeman  seized  the  lad  by  the 
collar,  and  he  tried  to  shake  off  his  hold  as  he 
faced  the  pawnbroker  blind  and  deaf  with  rage. 

"  Give  me  my  me  ther's  ring ! "  he  shouted. 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  IOQ 

"  I  give  him  in  charge,"  said  Mr.  Quirk,  wel- 
coming the  policeman's  interference;  whilst 
David  felt  an  awful  thrill  of  despair  run  through 
him  as  he  saw  whose  hand  was  grasping  him. 
"  I  was  a-doin'  nothing,  and  he  up  and  at  me 
like  a  tiger,"  added  the  pawnbroker. 

"  Ay,  he  did :  I  saw  him,"  cried  a  woman 
standing  at  the  pawn-shop  door.  "  He's  a  young 
jail-bird  :  everybody  can  see  that." 

It  was  only  too  plainly  to  be  seen.  David 
was  now  standing  perfectly  still  in  the  police 
man's  grip,  pale  and  frightened,  with  a  hang- 
dog air,  which  told  powerfully  against  him. 
One  of  the  passers-by,  an  intelligent,  well- 
dressed  mechanic,  pressed  forward  a  little,  ask- 
ing, "  Why  did  you  meddle  with  the  man  ? 
What's  this  about  a  ring  ? "  But  the  policeman 
checked  David's  attempts  to  reply. 

"  That's  no  business  of  mine,"  he  said  sharp- 
ly. "  You  give  this  lad  in  charge  ? " 

He  addressed  himself  to  Mr.  Quirk,  who  re- 
plied plaintively,  — 

"  I'm  a  householder  and  a  rate-payer,"  ie 
said,  "  and  I  give  him  in  charge." 

"Then  you'll  make  your  defence  before  the 


IIO  iN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

court,"  said  the  policeman  to  David  "Coma 
along  with  you ! " 

David  glanced  round  the  cluster  of  faces 
hemming  him  in.  Some  of  them  he  knew. 
Blackett  was  there,  grinning  triumphantly,  and 
Roger  was  peeping  behind  him,  half  afraid  of 
being  caught  by  his  father.  Euclid  had  stopped 
for  a  moment,  with  his  basket  on  his  arm,  and 
was  looking  on  with  an  amazed  and  puzzled 
face.  David  dared  not  call  upon  any  of  them 
by  name ;  but  he  cried  out,  in  a  lamentable 
voice,  which  touched  and  startled  many  of  the 
careless  on-lookers, — 

"  Will  somebody  tell  my  mother  what's  befell 
me?" 

He  saw  Roger  make  him  a  sign  that  he  had 
heard  and  would  fulfil  his  request,  before  he 
was  marched  off  to  the  police-station  to  pass  a 
night  there,  —  no  longer  a  strange  and  unpre- 
cedented occurrence  to  David. 

Bess  had  set  the  door  of  their  room  a  little 
ajar,  and  was  waiting  anxiously  for  David's 
return.  Her  mother  had  not  ceased  to  sob 
over  her  lost  ring  from  the  moment  when  sne 
had  ca  ght  sight  of  the  worn-out,  battered 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  1 1  I 

thing  which  had  been  exchanged  for  her  cwn. 
Her  grief  was  the  more  keen,  as  she  had  little 
hope  of  David  recovering  the  right  one.  She 
had  heard  of  other  women  having  their  wed- 
ding-rings changed,  or  "sweated,"  and  never 
being  able  to  right  themselves;  and  she  couli 
not  bear  to  think  of  some  other  woman,  hap- 
pier than  herself,  wearing  it  as  her  wedding- 
ring,  and  prizing  it  as  she  had  done.  A  thou- 
sand dim  memories  and  inarticulate  thoughts 
centred  in  the  lost  ring,  —  none  the  less  real, 
perhaps,  because  the  poor  widow  was  only  an 
ignorant  woman,  and  could  net  express  her 
feelings  in  language.  She  lay  moaning  in  utter 
hopelessness  and  helplessness,  knowing  too  well 
it  was  lost  forever.  Before  even  they  could 
expect  David  back,  Roger  ran  i.n,  breathless 
and  stammering.  The  candle  was  still  burning, 
and  they  could  see  his  agitated  face  and  his  ex- 
cited gestures  plainly. 

"  He's  bein'  took  to  jail  again ! "  he  ex- 
claimed in  broken  sentences.  "  I  see  him  all 
along.  He  up  and  at  old  Quirk  as  brave  as  a 
bull-dog.  He  had  him  down  on  the  ground  in 
no  time.  He'd  said  as  you  was  a  thief  and  a 


112  IN   PRISON    AND   OUT. 

drunkard,  and  worse ;  and  David  couldn't  stand 
it.  I'd  ha'  had  a  cut  at  him  too ;  but  he  had 
him  down  on  his  back  in  a  moment's  time,  and 
he  fought  for  you  like  a  good  un  i  ' 

"  But  where  is  he  ? "  gasped  the  mother,  as  her 
eyes,  glistening  with  terror,  turned  towards  the 
door,  where  Bess  was  standing,  as  though  waiting 
to  let  David  in,  and  close  it  safely  after  him. 

"  He's  took  to  jail,  you  know,"  answered 
Roger,  with  an  oath  such  as  he  had  learned 
when  he  could  first  speak.  "There  was  a 
)-0bby  up,  afore  I  could  give  him  warnin', 
pushin'  through  everybody ;  and  old  Quirk  gave 
him  in  charge,  and  they  walked  him  off  to  the 
station,  to  be  shut  up  all  night  till  to-morrow 
mornin'.  And  he  shouted,  *  Somebody  tell  my 
mother  what's  befell  me ! '  And  he  looked 
straight  at  me,  and  I  came  off  at  wunst.  Per- 
haps they'll  let  him  go  free  in  the  mornin' ! " 
.  But  even  Roger's  unaccustomed  eyes  could 
see  the  deathlike  pallor  and  change  that  came 
over  the  face  of  David's  mother,  as  she  heard 
what  he  had  to  say.  She  uttered  no  word  or 
cry,  but  sank  down  again  on  her  miserabl-e 
death-bed,  and  turned  her  despairing  face  to 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  1 1 3 

the  wall.  Bess  sent  away  Roger,  and,  careful!? 
putting  out  the  candle,  crept  on  to  the  sacking 
beside  her,  and,  laying  her  arm  gently  across  her, 
spoke  hopefully  of  David  being  released,  and 
Quirk  punished,  as  soon  as  the  truth  was  known. 
But  Mrs.  Fell  was  at  last  broken-hearted,  and 
answered  not  a  word  even  to  little  Bess,  who 
fell  asleep  at  last,  crying  softly  to  herself. 

Who  can  tell  how  long  the  hours  of  that 
night  were  ?  Darkness  without,  and  within  the 
utter  blackness  of  despair !  The  craving  hun- 
ger of  disease,  and  tne  soul's  hunger  after  the 
welfare  of  her  children !  The  chilly  dew  of 
death,  and  the  icy  death-blow  dealt  to  every 
lingering  hope  for  them !  When  Bess  awoke 
and  bestirred  herself  early  in  the  morning,  her 
mother  still  lay  speechless,  and  she  dared  not 
leave  her.  Euclid  started  on  his  day's  work 
alone.  There  was  no  one  she  could  ask  for 
help :  so  she  set  about  her  little  tasks  of  light- 
ing a  handful  of  fire,  and  making  a  cr,p  of  tea 
for  her  mother,  which  she  could  not  persuade 
her  to  touch.  It  was  a  dark  and  dreary  winter's 
morning,  —  so  dark  where  she  was  living,  tl  at 
she  could  scarcely  see  her  mother's  face. 


114  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

The  afternoon  was  fast  fading  into  nigl  t,  -« 
another  night  of  misery  and  despair, — when 
Roger  stole  softly  in,  and  crept  gently  up  to  the 
side  of  the  bed  where  David's  mother  lay. 
Bess  was  sitting  by  her,  holding  her  hand 
closely,  as  if  she  could  thus  keep  her  in  the 
world  where  her  lot  had  been  so  hard.  She  had 
not  spoken  yet,  and  had  scarcely  moved  since 
Roger  had  brought  his  fatal  tidings  the  night 
before.  Now,  when  her  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  his  low,  awe-struck  voice,  she  opened  her 
eyes  once  more,  and  fastened  them  upon  him. 
He  stooped  down,  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  sorrow- 
ful whisper. 

"He's  got  three  months  agen,"  he  said. 
"Never  mind!  everybody  gets  into  jail  some- 
time o'  their  lives  ! " 

Mrs.  Fell's  lips  moved  tremulously,  as  the 
eyelids  closed  slowly  over  her  dim  eyes,  which 
were  losing  sight  of  Bess,  though  she  was  lean- 
ing over  her,  and  calling,  "  Mother  !  " 

"  He  migl  t  ha'  been  a  good  man  like  fcia 
father!"  she  moaned  with  her  dying  breath. 


BLACKETTS    THREATS. 


CHAPTER  X. 

BLACKETT'S  THREATS. 

A  PARISH  coffin  and  a  pauper's  grave 
were  all  the  country  had  to  give  to  the 
dead  mother,  whose  son,  in  the  ignorance  and 
recklessness  of  boyhood,  had  broken  the  laws 
twice,  and  been  each  time  visited  with  a  harsh 
penalty.  "  That  servant  which  knew  his  lord's 
will,  and  did  it  not,  shall  be  beaten  with  many 
stripes.  But  he  that  knew  not,  and  did  commit 
things  worthy  of  stripes,  shall  be  beaten  with 
few  stripes."  There  is  Christ's  rule.  Do  we, 
who  sometimes  pride  ourselves  as  being  the 
most  Christian  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
abide  by  that  rule  ? 

The  mother  was  buried;  and  what  was  to 
become  of  Bess?  No  one  was  bound  to  take 
ary  care  of  her.  She  was  old  enough  to  see 


Il6  IN    PRISON   AND   OUT. 

after  herself.  There  was  the  workhouse  open 
to  her,  if  she  chose  to  apply  for  admission ; 
but,  if  she  entered  it,  it  would  be  to  be  sent  cut 
to  service,  as  a  workhouse  girl,  in  the  course  of 
a  few  weeks  or  months,  untrained  and  untaught 
fit  only  for  the  miserable  drudgery  of  the  lowest 
service.  There  was  not  strength  enough  in  her 
slight,  ill-fed  frame  to  enable  her  to  keep  body 
and  soul  together  at  laundry-work,  which  was 
the  only  work  she  knew  any  thing  of.  There 
was  no  home,  however  wretched,  to  give  her 
shelter,  if  she  continued  to  sell  water-cresses 
in  the  streets.  True,  Blackett  offered  her  the 
refuge  of  his  lodgings,  and  Roger  urged  her 
eagerly  to  avail  herself  of  his  father's  kindness ; 
but  Bess  shrank  away  with  terror  *  from  the 
mere  thought  of  it.  Blackett  had  been  the 
object  of  her  daily  dread  ever  since  her  child- 
hood, and  no  change  in  his  manner  towards  her 
could  inspire  her  with  confidence. 

When  she  came  back  from  following  her 
mother's  coflPn  to  its  pauper's  grave,  she  stole 
past  Blackett's  door  into  the  empty  room  be- 
yond, and  sat  down,  worn  out  with  grief  and 
weariness,  on  the  bedstead  where  her  mother's 


BLACKETTS   THREATS. 

t;orpse  had  been  lying  for  the  last  three  days. 
She  had  lived  in  the  room  alone  with  it,  and 
she  felt  more  lonely  now  that  it  was  gone. 
Silent  and  motionless  as  it  had  been,  with  its 
half-closed  eyelids,  and  the  ashy  whiteness  of 
its  face  gleaming  even  in  the  dusk,  it  had  been 
a  companion  to  her,  and  she  had  not  been  afraid 
of  it.  Now  it  was  gone,  she  was  indeed  alone. 

There  was  not  a  single  article  of  furniture 
left  in  the  room,  except  this  low,  rough  pallet- 
bedstead,  with  the  dingy  sacking,  bare  of  bed 
and  bedclothes.  Every  thing  else  was  gone. 
There  was  now  no  candlestick  left,  no  teapot 
or  cup,  no  flat-iron  or  poker,  —  not  one  of  the 
small  household  goods  of  the  poor.  Bess  had 
carried  all  the  few  possessions  left  to  her,  in  a 
miscellaneous  lot,  to  get  what  she  could  for 
them  at  the  marine  stores.  She  would  have 
carried  off  the  bedsteads  if  they  had  not  been 
too  heavy  for  her,  or  if  her  mother's  corpse 
had  not  been  lying  there. 

Euclid,  her  only  friend,  had  not  been  near 
her  these  three  days.  The  truth  is  that  the 
poor  old  man  was  passing  through  a  great  and 
severe  struggle,  and  it  was  not  over  yet.  He 


Il8  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

had  grown  in  a  measure  fond  of  Bess,  and  his 
heart  was  grieved  to  the  very  core  for  her. 
But  what  was  he  to  do  ?  he  continually  asked 
himself.  What  could  a  poor  old  man  like  him 
do  ?  He  was  terribly  afraid  of  taking  any  addi- 
tional weight  upon  his  over-burdened  shoulders, 
especially  now  he  was  in  sight  of  the  goal.  For 
the  last  year  or  two,  as  he  felt  the  infirmities  of 
age  growing  heavier,  an  unspeakable  dread 
lodged  in  his  inmost  soul,  lest,  after  all,  he 
should  fail  in  his  life's  aim.  Could  he  endure 
to  see  Victoria  buried  as  Mrs.  Fell  was  ?  He 
had  lurked  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  staircase, 
and  watched  the  rough  and  reckless  way  in 
which  the  rude,  slight  box,  that  could  hardly  be 
called  a  coffin,  was  bundled  out  of  the  house, 
and  carried  off  along  the  street,  followed  by 
Bess  alone  as  the  only  mourner  for  the  dead. 
It  had  given  a  sharp  and  poignant  prick  to  his 
hidden  fears.  How  could  he  burden  himself 
with  the  care  of  Bess  while  there  was  any 
chance  of  such  an  ending  to  his  career,  or, 
worse  still,  to  Victoria's  ?  If  Victoria  had  been 
buried  in  her  own  coffin,  as  his  wife  and  the 
other  children  had  been,  he  might  have  take» 


BLACKETTS   THREATS. 

up  with  Bess.  But  she  seemed  no  nea:er  the 
grave  than  at  the  beginning  of  the  winter :  her 
bealth,-or  rather  her  complaint,  whatever  it  was, 
remained  stationary.  Nc :  he  must  not  sacri- 
fice Victoria  to  Bess. 

Poor  Bess  !  But  as  she  was  sitting  alone  in 
the  gathering  twilight,  bewildered  with  her  sor- 
row, she  heard  the  door  softly  opened,  and  as 
softly  closed  again.  It  was  Victoria  who  had 
come  in,  after  crawling  feebly  down  the  long 
flights  of  stairs,  which  she  had  mounted  four 
months  ago,  in  the  autumn,  for  the  last  time  as 
she  thought.  She  could  not  speak  yet,  and  she 
sat  down  breathless  and  silent  beside  the  deso- 
late girl.  There  was  a  mournful  stillness  as  of 
death  in  the  room,  though  all  around  were 
echoing  the  busy,  jarring  noises  of  common 
life. 

"  I  don't  know  much,"  said  Victoria  at  last  in 
her  low,  weak  voice ;  "  but  I've  dreams  some- 
times, lyin'  up  there  alone  all  day,  and  I  seem 
to  see  quite  plain  some  place  where  the  sun  is 
always  shinin',  and  folks  are  happy,  and  there 
mother  is.  I  saw  it  last  night,  betvixt  sleepin' 
and  wakin',  as  plain  as  I  see  you.  And  your 


I2O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

mother  was  there,  Bess ;  and  some  one,  I 
couldn't  see  his  face,  was  leadin'  her  to  where 
the  sun  was  warm  and  bright,  and  choosin*  a 
good  place  for  her  to  rest  in ;  and  he  looked  as 
if  he  was  watchin'  for  any  little  bit  o'  stone  in 
the  way,  for  fear  she'd  hurt  her  feet,  like  we 
might  do  wi'  a  little,  little  child,  just  learnin'  to 
go  alone.  And,  O  Bess  !  your  mother  turhed 
so  as  I  could  see  her  face ;  and  it  was  very  pale, 
but  very  peaceful.  There  wasn't  any  more  pain 
in  it." 

"  Is  it  true  ? "  sobbed  Bess. 

"  I  don't  know  much,"  repeated  Victoria.  "  I 
never  went  to  school ;  for  father  couldn't  pay  for 
my  schoolin',  and  there  wasn't  any  law  to  make 
him.  He'd  have  done  it  gladly ;  but  water- 
cresses  isn't  much  for  a  family  to  live  on,  and 
die  on.  But  I  think  it  must  be  true ;  or  how 
could  I  see  it  ?  I  told  father  what  I'm  tellin' 
you ;  and  I  said  to  him, '  Father,  it  don't  matter 
very  much  about  bein'  buried  in  our  own  coffins, 
if  we  get  to  a  place  like  that  after  all.'  " 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  asked  Bess. 

"  He  made  a  noise  like  '  Urn ph ! '  and  went 
off,"  answered  Victoria. 


BLACKETTS    THREATS.  121 

••  If  there  was  only  somebody  to  tell  us  true !  *' 
Bobbed  Bess  again. 

"  Father  won't  let  the  missioners  come  to  see 
me,"  went  on  Victoria.  "  He  says  they  tenches 
cants  to  get  coals,  and  he'd  as  soon  get  his  coals 
from  the  parish.  There  was  a  sister  o'  mother's 
as  was  converted,  and  they  put  her  into  what 
they  call  a  report ;  and  father  was  that  ashamed  ! 
None  on  us  had  ever  been  in  such  a  thing.  We 
never  had  nothing  to  do  with  her,  so  as  I  don't 
know  if  it's  true.  Father  says  as  he  likes  to  see 
religion,  and  he  don't  see  nothink  he  could  call 
religion  in  her,  or  in  most  folks  as  are  converted 
and  put  in  the  report.  I  never  knew  rightly 
what  converted  means,"  said  Victoria,  sighing 
sadly,  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  her- 
self. 

But  Bess  was  thinking  no  longer  of  Victoria's 
dreams.  Her  thoughts  had  gone  in  again, 
brooding  over  their  own  sorrows ;  and  she 
moaned  with  a  very  deep  and  bitter  moaning. 

"  Oh  !  what  shall  I  do  ? "  she  cried.  "  What 
shall  I  do?" 

"I  came  to  fetch  you  upstairs  to  live  with 
us,"  answered  Victoria  very  softly.  "  Father'l) 


122  IN   PRISON    AND   OUT. 

be  glad  enough  when  it's  done.  You'd  be  as 
good  as  another  daughter  to  father  if  I  was 
gone ;  and  nobody  knows  how  soon  that  may 
be.  He's  a  bit  shy  and  queer  just  now;  but 
that'll  be  gone  when  it's  all  settled.  You  shall 
help  me  upstairs  again,  Bess ;  and  when  father 
comes  he'll  get  somebody  to  help  him  carry 
these  bedsteads  up  for  you  and  me  to  sleep  on. 
"  It'll  be  better  for  me  than  sleepin'  on  the 
floor,  you  know." 

"When  Euclid  reached  home  an  hour  later, 
he  paused  before  going  upstairs,  and  knocked 
at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Fell's  room ;  but  there  was 
no  answer.  He  tried  to  open  it ;  but  it  was 
locked.  Where  could  little  Bess  be  ?  he  asked 
himself  in  sudden  terror.  She  must  be  come 
back  from  the  funeral  by  this  time.  Was  it 
possible  that  she  had  taken  shelter  with  Black- 
ett  ?  The  old  man's  withered  face  tingled,  and 
his  frame  shook  as  with  ague,  as  the  thought 
flashed  across  him.  Whose  fault  would  it  be  ? 
It  was  he  who  had  forsaken  Bess  in  her  misery 
the  fatherless,  motherless,  brotherless  girl.  He 
stood  outside  the  closed  and  locked  door,  think- 
ing of  her  light  footstep  and  pretty  face  trip* 


BLACKETT S    THREATS.  123 

ping  along  at  his  side  every  morning  for  the 
last  two  months.  He  had  not  known  how 
closely  she  had  crept  to  his  heart  until  now  the 
dread  was  beating  against  him  that  she  was 
gone  to  Blackett.  The  old  man's  gray  and 
grim  face  grew  grayer  and  grimmer.  It  would 
be  a  hard  thing,  no  doubt,  to  follow  Victoria  to 
the  grave  in  a  pauper's  coffin  ;  but,  oh  !  it  would 
be  even  harder  to  see  Bess  flaunting  about  the 
streets  a  lost  and  wretched  creature.  His  con- 
science smote  him  sharply.  And  now  what 
must  he  do?  What  did  he  dare  to  do?  It 
would  be  like  braving  a  lion  in  his  den  to  face 
Blackett  at  his  own  fireside.  Yet  probably  Bess 
was  there. 

"  God  help  this  old  tongue  o'  mine ! "  said  Eu- 
clid half  aloud,  as,  after  some  minutes  of  hesita- 
tion, he  turned  with  desperate  CQurage  to  knock 
at  Blackett's  door. 

"  Come  in !  "  shouted  Blackett  with  a  surly 
snarl. 

Euclid  opened  the  door,  and  stood  humbly  on 
the  threshold.  It  was  a  room  less  bare,  but 
more  squalid  with  dirt,  than  any  other  in  the 
house.  The  woman  who  had  been  the  mother 


124  IN   PRISON    AND   OUT. 

of  Blackett's  three  sons  had  long  -go  disap 
peared ;  and  what  little  cleanliness  and  comfort 
had  once  been  known  there  had  gone  with  her. 
The  air  was  stifling  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco 
and  spirits,  and  Blackett  was  smoking  over  a 
fireplace  choked  up  with  ashes.  Roger,  who 
was  bound  hand  and  foot  with  strong  cords,  had 
rolled  himself  out  of  easy  reach  of  his  father's 
kicks,  and  was  lying  in  a  corner  with  an  expres- 
sion of  terror  and  hatred  on  his  face.  But  Bess 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"Come  in,  and  shut  the  door!"  shouted 
Blackett. 

"Mr.  Blackett,"  said  Euclid,  shutting  the 
door  behind  him,  with  the  long-sleeping  courage 
of  manhood  stirring  in  his  old  heart,  "  have  you 
seen  aught  of  Mrs.  Fell's  little  Bess  ? " 

"  Ay,  have  I ! "  growled  Blackett  with  an 
oath.  "Victoria's  been  and  fetched  her  up  to 
your  rat-hols. ;  and  now  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
old  fellow,  if  you  go  to  harbor  that  girl,  I'll 
make  this  place  too  hot  for  you.  I'll  keep  a  eye 
on  you  going  out  and  coming  in,  and  you'll 
repent  it  sore.  Get  out  o'  this  like  a  shot,  of 
I'll  begin  on  it  at  once." 


BLACKETT  S   THREATS.  125 

But  Euclid  was  off  like  a  shot  before 
Blackett  had  finished  his  threats,  and  was 
mounting  to  his  garret  with  a  suddenly  glad- 
dened heart.  "Thank  God!  thank  God!"  he 
repeated  to  himself,  step  after  step  up  the  long 
staircase.  He  had  hardly  heeded  Blackett's 
menaces,  though  they  lodged  themselves  uncon- 
sciously in  his  mind,  and  came  back  to  his 
memory  when  his  first  gladness  was  over.  Bess 
had  fallen  asleep  for  sorrow  on  Victoria's  bed ; 
and  he  stooped  over  her,  and  laid  his  hard 
brown  hand  gently  on  her  head,  as  if  to 
welcome  her  to  her  new  home.  "God  bless 
her !  "  he  murmured. 

"  I  sha'n't  care  if  you  can't  "bury  me  in  my 
own  coffin,"  whispered  Victoria,  "not  a  bit." 

"We'll  see  about  that,  Victoria,  my  dear," 
he  answered  with  tears  of  mingled  joy  and  fear 
glittering  in  his  eyes1.  "Please  God,  he'll  let 
me  do  as  much  as  thai i " 


126  IN   PfciSON   AND  OUT. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

AN   UNWILLING  THIEF. 

yjLACKETT'S  hatred  and  vengeance  were 
J_)  no  mean  forces  which  Euclid  could  affoid 
to  forget  or  disregard.  His  enemy  had  him  at 
an  advantage,  inasmuch  as  he  could  neither  go 
in  nor  out  of  the  house  without  passing  the 
door  of  his  room,  where  he  might  be  lurking  in 
ambush  against  him.  Euclid  was  a  peaceable, 
inoffensive  old  man,  who  had  kept  himself  aloof 
from  his  neighbors  in  dread  of  falling  into  dis- 
turbances. It  worried  him  to  feel  that  he  had 
made  such  a  man  his  enemy,  and  at  times  he 
reflected  on  the  possibility  of  moving;  but 
Victoria's  ill  health  and  weakness  seemed  10 
make  that  impossible,  even  if  he  could  find  an 
equally  cheap  attic  in  the  neighborhood. 

He  did  not  know  it,  nor  did  Victoria ;  but  for 


AN    UNWILLING   THIE,P.  I2/ 

some  time  past  a  rumor  had  pervaded  the  house 
that  old  Euclid,  the  water-cress-seller,  was  a 
miser,  —  a  miser,  also,  of  the  old-fashioned  type, 
who  kept  his  money  in  hard  cash,  and  in  his 
own  hands.  Some  of  his  neighbors  said  he 
carried  untold  wealth  about  with  him  in  the  old 
waistcoat  which  he  always  wore,  summer  and 
winter,  under  his  linen  blouse.  Others  guessed 
that  every  chink  and  crevice  in  the  walls  of  his 
garret  contained  bank-notes  and  coins,  and  that 
Victoria's  constant  ill  health  was  nothing  but 
a  blind  to  account  for  her  never  leaving  the 
treasure  unguarded.  Both  Euclid  and  Victoria 
became  the  objects  of  unusual  attention;  and 
Victoria,  especially,  was  surprised  and  embar- 
rassed by  the  friendly  visits  of  her  neighbors 
during  her  father's  absence  in  the  daytime, 
who  came  to  offer  her  any  assistance  she 
needed.  But  Victoria  was  now  quite  independ- 
ent. Bess  made  the  bed,  and  scrubbed  the 
floor,  and  did  the  little  shopping  that  had  to  be 
done ;  an  i  the  sick  girl  had  never  been  so  com- 
fortable and  cared  for  in  her  life. 

No  doubt  it  was  Bess  herself  who  had  inno- 
cently set  these  rumors  afloat.     No  one  can  tell 


128  IN    PRISON   AND   OUT. 

whether  she  had  hinted  at  it  in  any  confident'a! 
talk  with  Roger,  or  whether  some  prying  neigh- 
bor, listening  in  the  common  entrance,  had 
overheard  her  telling  her  mother  of  the  wonder- 
ful sight  she  had  beheld  through  the  chink  in 
old  Euclid's  door.  Bess  was  too  busy  to  hear 
any  thing  of  these  whispered  reports,  and  they 
were  not  likely  to  reach  the  ears  of  Euclid  and 
Victoria.  Neither  of  these  ever  spoke  of  their 
treasure  in  the  presence  of  Bess,  and  Victoria 
always  carefully  removed  it  from  under  her 
pillow  before  Bess  made  the  bed.  It  had  not 
^rown  at  all  since  Mrs.  Fell's  funeral-day ;  nay, 
once  it  had  been  broken  into  to  pay  the  rent. 
Yet  neither  of  them  repented  befriending  Bess. 
One  consequence  of  Bess  living  up  in  the 
garret  was,  that  it  became  a  not  unusual  cir- 
cumstance for  Roger  Blackett  to  mount  up 
there,  partly  for  her  sake,  and  partly  to  seek  a 
refuge  from  hisfathe^  s  cruel  tyranny.  Blackett 
knew  it  very  well,  but,  with  a  crafty  foresight 
that  this  might  be  useful  some  day,  feigned  an 
utter  ignorance  of  this  new  intercourse.  Roger 
seldom  showed  his  face  whfm  Euclid  was  at 
home;  but  Victoria  soon  grew  used  to  seeing 


AN    UNWILLING   THIEF.  I2Q 

him  creep  in  timidly,  with  his  terrified,  down- 
cast  face,  and  crouch  on  the  hearth  before  the 
handful  of  fire,  showing  her  the  bruises  on  his 
arms  and  shoulders  and  back,  where  his  father 
had  been  flogging  him.  He  was  an  idler, 
weaker  boy  than  David  Fell,  with  less  energy 
to  swim  against  the  tide  of  evil  that  was  ready 
to  sweep  him  away  in  its  current.  But  as  yet 
tie  had  never  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  police  ; 
and  now  he  promised  Victoria,  as  he  had  been 
wont  to  promise  Mrs.  Fell,  that  he  would  always 
be  a  good  boy,  and  keep  from  being  a  thief. 

To  Victoria  it  was  pleasant  to  have  this  fresh 
young  life  of  Bess  and  Roger  coming  about 
her  to  divert  the  dreary  solitude  of  her  illness. 
She  had  had  no  companionship  except  that  of 
an  old  man  borne  down  by  cares ;  and  Euclid 
was  amazed  to  find  how  cheerful  she  grew,  and 
how  much  less  the  winter  was  trying  her  than 
he  had  feared.  The  change,  though  he  did  not 
grudge  Bess  her  home,  was  not  so  welcome  to 
him  as  to  Victoria.  The  mere  fact  that  he 
cculd  never  speak  of  his  own  aim  in  life  before 
Bess,  nor  count  over  his  hoard  as  he  had  been 
use<f  to  do,  made  him  more  anxious  about  it; 


I3O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

and  he  could  not  ge:  the  thought  of  it  out  oi 
his  head  while  h?  was  away  all  day  crying  his 
cresses  in  the  distant  streets. 

"Victoria,  my  dear,"  he  said  one  evening, 
when  he  was  home  before  Bess,  and  had  treated 
himself  to  a  hasty  and  furtive  glance  at  his 
treasure,  "  I'm  castin'  about  in  my  mind  if  we 
couldn't  find  a  safer  place  for  it,  now  we've  so 
many  strange  ^folks  about  us.  If  I  only  knew 
somebody  as  'ud  take  good  care  on  it  for  us." 

"  It's  never  from  under  my  pillow,  father," 
answered  Victoria,  with  a  smile.  "It's  as  safe 
as  safe  can  be.  Don't  you  fidget,  daddy." 

"  If  I  could  only  lock  the  door  when  we  go 
out  i'  th'  mornin',"  sighed  old  Eucjid. 

"  And  leave  me  locked  up  all  day ! "  said 
Victoria,  laughing. 

"Bess  has  been  with  us  four  weeks,"  he 
went  on,  "and  we  have'nt  put  a  penny  to  it. 
And  Blackett  gives  me  a  curse  every  time  he 
catches  sight  on  me." 

"  Father,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  I'd  ten  times 
rather  be  buried  in  a  parish  coffin  than  turn 
Bess  away  into  the  streets." 

"Ay!   to  would  I  for  myself,  lass,"  he  an» 


AN    UNWILLING   THIEF.  13! 

swered.  "But  it  'ud  be  hard  work  to  me  to 
follow  thee  in  a  parish  coffin." 

It  was  still  as  dark  as  midnight  at  four 
o'clock  the  next  morning,  when  Euclid  and 
Bess,  after  giving  Victoria  a  cup  of  tea,  left 
her  to  sleep  away  the  remainder  of  the  p.igl^ 
until  daybreak.  Her  best  and  soundest  sleep 
generally  came  to  her  after  they  were  gone, 
and  she  was  alone  in  the  quiet  garret,  pas: 
which  no  foot  could  tramp,  and  above  which 
was  the  roof  inhabited  only  by  the  sparrows. 

If  Euclid  and  Bess  could  have  looked  through 
the  panels  of  Blackett's  door  as  they  passed  it, 
they  would  have  seen  that  he  was  up,  and 
listening ;  and  that  Roger  was  cowering  behind 
him,  with  a  scared  and  haggard  expression  on 
his  wretched  face.  In  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  after  their  departure,  Roger  was  being 
pushed  on  by  his  father,  with  smothered  threats 
and  curses  in  his  ears,  up  the  dark  staircases, 
and  past  the  doors  of  the  rooms,  whose  inmates 
would  be  all  astir  in  another  hour  or  less. 
Roger  crept  slowly  and  reluctantly  up  the  last 
steep  flight,  and  lingered  a  moment  at  Euclid's 
door,  .w'lile  Blackett  stood  half-wav  below  him. 


132  IN    PRISON    AND   OUT. 

a  black  figure  in  the  deep  gloom,  beckoning  to 
him  with  a  threatening  gesture  to  go  onwards. 

Roger  pushed  the  latchless  door  gently,  and 
found  that  it  was  not  fastened  within,  but 
yielded  at  once  to  his  touch.  The  small  fire 
of  coals  and  wood,  lit  by  Bess,  had  smouldered 
down,  and  showed  only  a  line  of  red  between 
two  lowest  bars  ;  yet  the  faint  light  it  gave  fell 
upon  the  pale  face  of  Victoria,  already  sleeping 
a  quiet  and  restful  slumber.  He  looked  from 
that  pale,  sleeping  face,  back  to  the  tall  black 
figure  in  the  darkness,  with  its  uplifted  and 
clinched  fist  menacing  him,  and  he  strode  noise- 
lessly into  the  room.  Still  he  paused  for  some 
minutes,  dreading  to  go  on,  though  not  daring 
to  go  back.  Victoria  was  kind  and  good  to 
him ;  but  his  father  was  threatening  to  kill  him 
if  he  did  not  execute  his  commands.  Why  had 
he  ever  learned  that  old  Euclid  was  a  miser, 
and  had  heaps  of  money  ?  and,  oh !  how  could 
it  be  that  he  had  ever  betrayed  to  his  father 
the  secret  he  had  found  out,  —  that  Victoria 
guarded  some  precious  bundle  under  her  pil- 
low ?  If  he  must  be  a  thief,  he  would  a  thou 
sand  times  rather  steal  from  any  one  than  her. 


AN    UNWLLING   THIEF.  133 

A  very  slight,  but  to  Roger  a  very  terrible, 
sound  upon  the  staircase,  filled  him  with  3, 
sudden  courage.  He  stretched  himself  on  the 
floor,  and  crawled  forward  to  Victoria's  side. 
Very  warily  and  softly  his  fingers  stole  up,  and 
under  her  pillow,  where  the  precious  bundle 
lay.  He  drew  it  so  slowly  and  gently  towards 
him,  that,  though  Victoria  moved  a  little  rest- 
lessly, and  put  her  hand  up  sleepily  as  if  to 
guard  it,  she  did  not  wake.  In  a  few  moments 
it  lay  in  his  grasp,  and  he  was  crawling  back 
across  the  floor  to  the  dark  staircase.  The 
door  creaked  a  little  on  its  rusty  hinges  as  he 
closed  it  after  him ;  and  he  heard  Victoria's 
voice  calling  out  drowsily,  "  Good-by,  father." 

It  was  after  mid-day  before  Victoria  got  up ; 
for  she  was  neither  so  hungry  nor  so  cold  in 
bed,  and  it  saved  firing  to  lie  still  as  long  as 
she  could  bear  it.  She  had  asked  Roger  the 
day  before  to  come  up  for  some  pence  to  buy 
chips  and  coal,  and  he  had  promised  readily  to 
do  it ;  but  he  did  not  come.  She  had  just  chips 
enough  to  kindle  the  fire,  and  sufficient  coal  to 
keep  it  alight  till  Bess  or  her  father  should  come 
home.  But  she  could  not  help  wondering  what 


*34  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 

cruelty  of  his  father's  was  keeping  him  away,  as 
she  watched  the  tiny  tongues  of  flame,  which 
had  to  be  carefully  cherished  lest  they  should 
die  out  altogether  before  the  coal  was  lit.  She 
felt  hopeful  and  happy.  The  late  February 
days  were  come,  and  the  sky  was  clearer ;  the 
dense  fogs  were  almost  gone  for  another  spell 
of  summer  weather;  and  the  clouds  that  still 
hung  gray  above  the  streets  had  gleams  of  blue 
breaking  through  them.  The  deepest  misery  of 
the  year  was  over.  The  days  were  longer,  and 
would  soon  be  warmer.  There  was  no  dreary 
mid-winter  to  tide  over.  Victoria,  watching  her 
small  fire,  not  quite  kindled  yet,  sang  feebly  to 
herself  in  a  piping,  tremulous  voice;  and  her 
wan  face  wore  a  brighter  smile  than  it  had  done 
for  months. 

"  Why,  there's  father  c'omin'  up  the  stairs  !  " 
she  exclaimed.  "He's  more  than  an  hour 
early." 

It  was  Euclid,  who  came  in  with  an  empty 
basket  and  a  pleased  face.  He  had  had  uncom- 
mon good  luck,  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  before 
the  fire,  and  stretched  his  wrinkled  old  hand* 
over  the  flame  and  smoke.  He  had  been  reck- 


AN   UNWILLING   THIEF.  135 

oning  up  as  he  came  along  home,  and  he  could 
spare  sevenpence  halfpenny  to  add  to  the 
hoard,  and  so  make  it  level  money.  Euclid 
was  always  uneasy  in  his  mind  when  his  deposit 
was  not  level  money.  Now  Bess  was  away,  and 
sure  to  be  away  for  another  hour  or  more,  he 
could  count  the  money  over,  and  feast  his  eyes 
upon  it,  —  the  only  pleasure  he  had  in  the 
world. 

•  "It  does  my  old  heart  good,  Victoria,  mj' 
dear,"  he  said,  turning  up  the  old  soap-box  on 
end.  "  It's  as  if  it  made  up  for  all  the  pipes  I 
never  smoke,  and  the  victuals  I  never  eat,  and 
the  sights  as  I  never  see.  Make  the  door  fast, 
my  dear,  and  you  and  me'll  have  a  treat." 

Victoria  fastened  the  door  with  a  forked  stick, 
brought  from  the  market,  laughing  a  low,  quiet 
laugh,  in  which  Euclid  joined  hoarsely,  yet 
heartily.  It  was  as  great  a  treat  to  him  to  hear 
her  laugh  as  to  count  up  his  money. 

"  I've  heerd  a  learned  man  —  a  great  scholar 
he  was,"  said  Euclid,  "  as  had  read  a  heap  o* 
books  —  talk  o'  bein'  as  rich  as  creases ;  but 
whatever  he  could  ha'  meant  by  it,  I  could 
never  make  out  yet.  I've  puzzled  over  it  many 


136  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

and  many  a  hour.  If  he'd  said  as  cold  as 
creases,  or  yet  as  green  as  creases,  I  could  ha* 
understood.  But  as  rich  as  creases,  Victoria, 
my  dear ! " 

"  Don't  ask  me,  father,"  she  answered,  "  I'm 
no  scholar.  We've  lived  on  creases ;  but  we've 
never  got  rich  on  'em." 

"  Ay,  we've  lived  and  died  on  'em,"  said  Eu- 
clid contemplatively.  "  If  we  could  have  all  the 
money  as  eVer  we  spent,  all  that's  gone  in  rent, 
and  victuals  and  clothin'  and  ceterer,  we  might, 
maybe,  ha'  grown  rich  by  creases ;  but  then 
where  should  we  ha'  been  ? " 

Victoria  had  lifted  up  her  pillow  as  he  spoke, 
half  to  himself  and  half  to  her.  She  stood  for 
an  instant  gazing  down  in  bewilderment.  The 
old  cotton  handkerchief,  once  white  with  a  red 
border  round  it,  but  grown  yellow  and  dingy 
with  age,  and  with  much  knotting  and  unknot- 
ting, — the  familiar  little  bundle  that  had  beer 
her  father's  purse  ever  since  she  cot'ld  remem- 
ber, —  did  not  lie  in  its  accustomed  place.  She 
pushed  aside  the  parcel  of  rags  which  served 
Bess  as  a  pillow;  but  it  was  not  there.  She 
shook  the  clothes  with  a  trembling  hand,  and 


AN    UNWILLING  THIEF.  137 

then  sank  down  on  the  bedstead,  sick  and  faint 
with  alarm. 

"  Father ! "  she  breathed  in  a  low,  gasping 
voice,  "  it's  gone  I " 

For  a  moment  old  Euclid  gazed  at  her  in  a 
dreamy,  absent  manner,  muttering,  "As  rich  as 
creases ! "  as  though  he  did  not  hear  her  speak. 

"  Father ! "  she  cried  again,  in  a  louder  tone, 
"  our  money's  gone  ! " 

"  Gone ! "  he  repeated. 

"  It's  not  here  ! "  she  answered.  "  It's  been 
stolen  !  stolen  !  I  remember  now.  There  was 
a  click  of  the  door,  after  I'd  fallen  asleep,  and  I 
called  out,  'Good-by,  father!'  and  it  was  a 
thief !  O  father,  father !  what  shall  we  do  ? " 

Euclid  had  started  to  his  feet,  and  stood  trem- 
bling and  shivering  with  the  shock  of  terror 
Gone  !  Stolen  !  The  little  hoard  of  money  he 
had  scraped  together  with  so  many  hardships 
and  cares,  so  much  labor  and  self-denial !  The 
money  he  might  want,  before  the  bleak  winds  of 
March  were  gone,  to  bury  his  last  child  in  her 
own  coffin.  Was  it  possible  that  God  would 
allow  a  thief  to  steal  in,  and  rob  him  of  such  a 
sacred  treasure  ?  Euclid's  heart  answered,  Yes, 


138  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

it  was  possible :  it  had  come  to  pass,  this  over- 
whelming  disaster,  and  his  very  soul  seemed  to 
die  within  him. 

He  sat  down  again  in  his  broken  old  chair ; 
for  he  felt  too  feeble  to  hold  himself  up,  and  he 
hid  his  withered,  ashy-pale  face  in  his  hands. 
All  the  misery  and  privation  and  pinching 
poverty  of  his  sixty  years  of  life  seemed  to 
rush  back  upon  him,  and  roll  like  a  full  tide 
over  his  crushed  spirit.  After  all  his  toil  and 
suffering,  he  would  be  forced  to  go  upon  the 
parish,  if  not  to-day  or  this  week,  well,  in  a  few 
weeks,  or  in  a  few  months  at  the  farthest.  He 
might  as  well  give  up  at  once;  for  he  could 
never  save  so  much  money  again.  And  Victo- 
ria! Now,  if  she  should  fall  ill,  even  a  little 
worse,  she  must  be  taken  away  from  him,  and 
go  into  the  workhouse  hospital,  to  die  there, 
among  strange  bad  women,  uncared-for,  weep- 
ing her  last  bitter  tears  on  a  parish  pillow; 
whilst  he,  parted  from  her,  was  perhaps  laying 
his  old  gray  head  on  another  parish  pillow,  and 
turning  his  face  to  the  wall  to  hide  his  bitter 
tears, 

"I  must   stir  up,"   he   said   at   last,   rising 


AN   UNWILLING  THIEF.  139 

stiffly  and  slowly  from  his  chair,  as  if  he  felt 
himself  to  be  a  very  old,  infirm  man :  "  I  must 
fetch  the  police,  Victoria." 

It  was  not  long  before  a  policeman  mounted 
up  to  Euclid's  garret,  arid  heard  the  whole 
story  of  the  loss.  Nor  was  it  very  long,  after 
inquiring  who  visited  them  the  oftenest,  and 
after  seeking  a  little  information  among  the 
neighbors,  who  very  eagerly  supplied  it,  before 
he  fixed  upon  Roger  and  his  father,  who  bore 
the  worst  character  in  the  house.  Before  an 
Tiour  had  passed,  Roger  was  lodged  in  the 
nearest  police-station,  and  Blackett  was  being 
sought  for  in  all  his  usual  places  of  resort: 


I4O  IX   PRISON  AND  OUT. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
VICTORIA'S  COFFIN. 

BUT  Blackett  was  nowhere  to  be  found 
He  had  taken  his  glazier's  tools,  and  a 
sheet  or  two  of  glass  on  his  back,  and  gone' 
away  into  the  country  to  seek  for  stray  jobs  in 
the  shape  of  broken  panes.  There  was  no 
trace  of  the  lost  money  in  his  room ;  and 
though  Roger,  in  his  fright,  had  owned  to  hav- 
ing stolen  it,  and  added  that  he  had  given  the 
whole  of  it  to  his  father,  there  was  no  evidence 
to  prove  the  truth  of  his  assertion.  Roger's 
terrified  statements  were  full  of  contradictions 
and  falsehoods.  He  was  ready  to  assert  or 
deny  any  thing,  and  he  was  remanded  until  his 
father  could  be  found  and  summoned ;  whilst 
Euclid  and  Victoria  were  bidden  to  hold  them- 
selves in  readiness  to  appear  whenever  their 
evidence  should  be  wanted. 


VICTORIA  S   COFFIN.  14! 

For  the  next  few  days,  Euclid,  a  broken- 
spirited,  hopeless  old  man,  dragged  his  heavy 
feet  over  his  old  rounds,  crying,  "  Cre-she ! 
cre-she !  "  mournfully,  as  if  by  some  cruel  magic 
a  spell  had  been  cast  over  him,  and  he  was 
doomed  to  tread  the  dreary  streets,  with  bowed- 
down  head  and  dragging  limbs,  uttering  no 
other  word  but  "  Cre-she  !  "  His  eyes  dis- 
cerned nothing  save  Victoria  being  carried  be- 
fore him  in  a  parish  coffin.  He  did  not  even 
see  Blackett,  on  the  evening  of  his  return  from 
his  expedition  after  work,  lying  in  wait  to  watch 
him  come  home,  and  jeering  after  him  as  he 
shambled  along  the  passage  and  up  the  stairs. 

It  had  been  a  hard  day's  work  for  Euclid, 
and  he  was  long  behind  his  time.  Bess  and 
Victoria  had  been  looking  out  for  him  anxiously 
the  last  hour  or  more ;  and  they  made  much 
of  him,  as  if  they  could  not  do  enough  to  com- 
fort him.  But  he  sat  silent  and  downcast,  and 
only  shook  his  shaggy  gray  head  despondently 
when  Victoria  gave  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  Daddy ! "  she  said,  "what's  ailin'  you  ?  " 

"  You  know,  Victoria ! "  he  answered  sadly 
and  reproachfully.  "God  hasn't  helped  my 


142  IN    PRISON    AND    OUT. 

poor  old  legs  to  keep  you  and  me  off  the  parish. 
Your  poor  mother  when  she  lay  a-dyin',  with 
you  on  her  poor  arm,  she  said  as  she  were  sure 
he'd  do  as  much  as  that ;  and  he  hasn't." 

"Have  you  been  to  ask  help  of  the  parish  ?" 
inquired  Bess,  with  eyes  round  with  wonder 
and  alarm. 

"  No,  no,  child  !  not  yet !  "  he  replied,  a  tinge 
of  brownish  red  creeping  over  his  grim  yet  pale 
face.  "  It's  not  come  to  that  as  yet.  But,  as  I 
come  down  the  street  here  in  the  dusk,  there 
walked  alongside  of  me  a  parish  funeral,  —  not  a 
real  funeral,  only  the  shadow  of  one,  as  you 
may  say ;  and  I  knowed  it  were  Victoria's.  It 
were  Victoria's  !  "  he  repeated,  his  voice  break- 
ing down  into  a  sob. 

"Father!"  cried  Victoria,  "daddy!  how  do 
you  know  as  I  shall  want  a  funeral  or  a  coffin  ? " 

Euclid  lifted  up  his  head,  and  checked  his 
sobs,  gazing  at  the  only  child  left  to  him,  with 
his  dim  old  eyes  half  blinded  with  tears. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  she  went  on,  "as 
we've  been  almost  making  believe  as  if  I  must 
want  a  coffin  o'  my  own  very  soon.  Maybe 
God  hasn't  let  i.s  keep  that  money,  because  he 


VICTORIAS    COFFIN.  143 

doesn't  mean  me  to  die  just  yet.  I've  been 
thinkin'  hard  ever  since  it  was  stole ;  and  that's 
what's  come  into  my  head,  father.  Perhaps 
God  knows  I  sha'n't  want  a  coffin  o'  my  own 
yet ;  and  there  was  some  harm,  maybe,  in  our 
settin'  our  minds  on  it." 

"  Not  want  a  coffin ! "  repeated  Euclid  in- 
^credulously. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  "I  think 
the  thought  of  it  has  helped  to  make  me  ill.  I 
could  go  to  the  p'leece-court  after  the  money 
was  stole,  and  I'm  none  the  worse  for  it ;  and 
the  p'leece  has  been  here  to  bid  us  go  again 
to-morrow,  and  I  feel  quite  sharp  and  stirred- 
up  like.  And  I've  slept  sounder  since  the 
money's  been  gone  away  from  under  my  head. 
It  was  always  sayin'  quietly  in  my  ear,  '  I'm 
goin'  to  buy  you  a  coffin  !  I'm  a-goin'  to  buy  a 
coffin  for  you!'  And  then  I'd  dream  of  my 
funeral,  and  you  being  left  all  alone,  father. 
No,  God  doesn't  mean  me  to  want  a  coffin 
yet,  I  think." 

Old  Euclid  sat  motionless  and  speechless, 
his  bowed  head  lifted  up,  and  his  hands  firmly 
grasping  his  knees,  as  he  gazed  fixedly  at  hi§ 


144  ;N    PRISON    AND    OUT. 

daughter.  She  was  very  pale,  very  thin,  a 
small,  delicate,  weakly  creature ;  but  her  eyes 
were  brighter,  and  her  face  happier,  than  he 
had  seen  them  since  she  was  a  little,  untroubled 
child,  not  old  enough  to  understand  his  diffi 
culties  and  toil.  The  tea's  started  to  her  eyes 
for  a  moment  as  she  met  his  gaze;  but  she 
laughed  and  nodded  to  him  as  she  wiped  them 
away.  If  God  meant  to  leave  him  Victoria, 
how  could  he  fret  about  her  coffin  ? 

His  sleep  was  disturbed  that  night ;  but  the 
waking  thoughts  that  drove  it  away  were  happy 
Dnes.  Had  he  thought  himself  an  old  worn-out 
man  a  few  hours  before  ?  Why,  there  were 
years  of  work  in  him  yet ;  and  he  would  start 
afresh  after  to-morrow.  If  he  could  only  lay 
by  twopence  a  day  —  one  shilling  a  week  —  for 
the  next  two  years,  that  would  more  than  re- 
turn his  lost  treasure.  But  it  should  never  lie 
under  Victoria's  pillow  again,  to  sing  that  dis- 
mal song  into  her  ear.  He  must  find  a  banker 
for  it ;  and  it  should  grow  without  her  knowl- 
edge. Then  his  heart  softened  towards  Roger, 
poor  lad!  What  could  he  do  with  such  a 
father?  One  of  his  own  boys  had  died  about 


VICTORIA  S   COFFIN.  145 

his  age;  and  he  thought  with  peaceful  regret 
of  him,  blending  the  tw>  lads  together  in  his 
half-waking,  half-dreamy  thoughts. 

Bess  had  to  start  off  for  the  market  alone 
the  next  morning,  leaving  Euclid  to  go  to  the 
police-court  to  appear  against  Roger.  He  and 
Victoria  set  out  in  good  time,  and  had  to  wait 
a  long  while  in  the  large  entrance-court  of  it, 
whilst  a  squalid  and  rough  crowd  of  men, 
women,  and  children  gathered  together.  Vic- 
toria, in  her  long  seclusion  in  her  garret,  had 
been  kept  very  much  apart  from  her  neigh- 
bors ;  and  the  brutal  faces,  and  rough,  coarse 
manners  of  this  crowd  frightened  her.  She 
was  glad  when  an  officer  summoned  her  and 
her  father  into  the  court. 

They  had  been  there  before;  yet  still  the 
place  looked  vast  and  imposing  to  them,  though 
it  was  but  a  small  and  dimly  lighted  hall. 
There  were  about  fifty  spectators  in  it,  stand- 
ing in  a  small  space  at  the  back,  looking 
on  and  listening  in  almost  unbroken  silence. 
Roger  stood  at  the  bar,  opposite  the  magistrate, 
looking  miserable  and  bewildered.  Blackett 
Pressed  decently,  like  ^  thoroughly  respectable 


146  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 

workman,  glanced  towards  him,  from  time  to 
time,  with  a  glance  that  made  him  shiver. 
Euclid  and  Victoria  gave  their  evidence  again ; 
and  the  policeman  who  had  arrested  Roger  told 
what  he  had  said  in  admission  of  the  theft. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  his  guilt;  but  was 
his  father  an  accomplice  ? 

There  might  be  a  strong  suspicion  of  it  in 
every  mind ;  but  there  was  no  proof.  Blackett 
told  the  magistrate  that  Roger  was  a  confirmed 
iiar,  as  well  as  a  confirmed  thief.  He  had  often 
beaten  him  for  his  bad  conduct,  and  done  his 
utmost  to  correct  him.  He  himself  had  been 
so  hard  up  for  money  on  the  day  of  the  rob- 
bery, that  he  had  been  compelled  to  go  out 
and  seek  work  through  the  country.  Not  a 
shilling  or  a  penny  could  be  traced  to  him; 
and,  if  t^ie  lad  swore  he  had  given  it  all  to  him, 
it  was  only  one  out  of  a  thousand  lies.  He 
would  be  glad  to  have  him  sent  to  prison, 
where  he  would  be  taken  care  of,  and  taught  a 
trade. 

"  I've  got  somethin*  more  to  say,"  exclaimed 
Euclid,  stepping  briskly  into  the  \vitness-box 
as  soon  as  Blackett  quitted  it 


VICTORIAS    COFFIN.  147 

He  stood  in  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  kind  of 
pulpit,  and  he  a  rugged,  unkempt,  grim  old 
preacher.  His  ragged  gray  hair  fell  over  his 
wrinkled  forehead  almost  to  the  shaggy  eye- 
brows, under  which  his  dim  and  faded  eyes 
gleamed  again  for  a  few  minutes  with  his 
earnestness  and  resolution.  He  grasped  the 
wood-work  before  him  with  both  his  hands, 
and  turned  his  gaze  alternately  from  the  magis- 
trate to  Roger. 

"  Don't  you  send  him  to  jail,  my  worship  ! " 
he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  fervent  entreaty. 
"I  forgive  him  free,  and  Victoria  forgives 
him.  It  were  the  money  for  her  coffin  he 
stole ;  and  it's  come  to  her  mind  as  God 
doesn't  mean  to  let  her  die  yet,  and  she'll 
not  want  a  coffin  as  soon  as  I  thought.  I  was 
afeard  the  parish  'ud  have  to  bury  her.  The 
parish!"  he  cried  in  a  shriller  voice,  which 
rang  through  the  court.  "I  was  afeard  o* 
that,  or  I'd  never  ha'  gone  for  the  police, — 
never!  He's  only  a  young,  little  lad,  my 
worship ;  and,  if  you  send  him  to  jail,  he'll 
grow  up  a  thief.  His  two  brothers  has  been 
in  jail,  and  they're  boL.h  thieves  for  good  now. 


IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 

I  can't  call  'em  jail-birds :  they're  jail-chicke.is, 
my  worship.  O  my  worship !  try  summat 
else  with  Roger.  Try  what  keepin'  him  out 
o'  jail  'ill  do;  for  it's  done  no  good  to  his 
brothers.  It  makes  my  heart  sore  to  think  as 
Victoria  and  me  should  ha'  helped  at  makin' 
him  a  thief.  Jail's  no  good  for  young  lads  ;  no 
good  at  all.  I'm  a  old  man,  and  I've  seen 
enough  of  it.  If  you'll  only  let  him  go  free, 
my  good  worship,  I'll  forgive  him ;  and  Victoria 
forgives  him.  Only  let  us  never  sit  at  home  o' 
nights,  and  think  as  he's  been  sent  to  jail,  and 
made  a  thief  of,  by  her  and  me." 

Euclid  had  spoken  rapidly  and  eagerly,  utterly 
disregarding  the  somewhat  feeble  efforts  of  the 
nearest  policeman  to  silence  him.  All  who 
were  in  the  court  listened,  as  men  always  listen 
to  urgent,  warm-hearted  pleading.  Victoria's 
sad  and  wan  little  face,  turned  towards  Roger, 
pleaded  for  him  as  eloquently;  and  the  boy, 
dropping  his  face  into  his  hands,  broke  out  into 
a  loud  cry  as  Euclid  finished  speaking.  A 
gentleman,  who  was  sitting  on  a  seat  behind 
the  officials  of  the  court,  wrote  a  few  words  hur- 
riedly on  a  slip  of  paper,  and  had  it  passed  to 


VICTORIAS  COFFIN.  149 

the  magistrate,  who  glanced  at  it,  and  then 
turned  to  Euclid. 

"  At  your  request,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  not  pass 
sentence  on  this  lad  to-day,  but  remand  him  for 
another  week.  Some  inquiries  shall  be  made 
into  Blackett's  circumstances  and  means  of 
helping  to  pay  for  the  maintenance  of  his  son, 
and  also  if  any  industrial  school  is  open  to  take 
him.  Blackett,  if  your  two  older  sons  are 
thieves,  it  speaks  very  badly  for  you;  and  I 
shall  direct  the  police  to  keep  an  eye  upon  you 
and  your  movements.  You  may  go  now." 

There  was  an  ominous  scowl  of  hatred  on 
Blackett's  face  as  he  crushed  past  Euclid  and 
Victoria  on  their  way  out.  Euclid  caught  sight 
of  it;  but  he  did  not  speak  of  it  to  Victoria, 
who  was  overjoyed  to  think  of  Roger  escaping 
the  doom  that  had  threatened  him,  and  very 
proud  to  think  that  her  father  had  spoken  up 
so  well  before  the  justice.  It  would  be  some- 
thing to  remember  and  talk  of  for  many  a  long 
day. 

But  when  Bess,  coming  home  in  the  evening, 
heard  the  good  news  about  Roger,  she  burst 
out  into  a  passion  of  sobs  and  tears.  It  was 


ISO  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

not  that  Roger  was  saved,  but  that  David  was 
lost.  "  O  mother !  mother ! "  she  cried  again 
and  again,  "if  they'd  only  done  the  same  by 
him !  And  mother  always  said  he'd  ha'  made 
a  good  man  like  father  1 " 


GLAD   TIDINGS. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

GLAD   TIDINGS 

IT  was  two  or  three  days  after  .his,  when 
Euclid  and  Bess  had  come  in  from  their 
cress-selling  in  the  evening,  that  a  loud,  strange 
knock  at  the  door  of  their  garret  struck  alarm 
into  the  hearts  of  all  the  three.  Blackett  had 
not  hitherto  molested  any  of  them';  but  they 
lived  in  daily  terror  of  him,  and  some  of  their 
neighbors  had  warned  them  to  look  out  for 
danger.  Victoria  and  Bess  uttered  a  low 
scream,  and  Euclid  shuffled  across  the  floor 
to  fasten  the  staple;  but  already  a  hand  had 
pushed  it  a  little  wider  open  from  the  outside, 
and  he  could  see  in  the  dim  light  that  it  was  a 
stranger  who  was  standing  there,  and  a  stranger 
not  in  the  dress  of  a  policeman. 

"  May  I  come  in  ? "  asked  a  pleasant  voice. 


152  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

"Air  you  a  friend,  or  air  YOU  a  enemy?" 
inquired  Euclid. 

"  A  friend,  surely  ! "  answered  the  stranger, 
"My  name  is  Dudley,  John  Dudley;  and  1 
bring  you  news  of  Roger  Blackett.  I  saw  you 
and  Victoria  in  the  court  the  other  day." 

"  Come  in !  come  in ! "  exclaimed  Euclid, 
throwing  the  door  wide  open:  "you're  kindly 
welcome." 

The  daylight  still  lingered  in  the  garret,  and 
they  could  see  plainly  the  pleasant  yet  grave 
face  of  the  gentleman  who  entered,  and  whose 
simple  and  easy  manner  made  them  feel  confi- 
dence in  him  at  once.  Victoria  set  the  only 
chair  there  was  for  him,  and  he  took  it  as  if  he 
had  been  a  familiar  guest ;  ^whilst  Euclid  seated 
himself  on  the  soap-box,  and  the  two  girls  on 
the  side  of  the  bed.  Mr.  Dudley  looked  at 
them  both  inquiringly. 

"You  were  frightened  when  I  knocked  at 
the  door  ?  "  he  said. 

"Ay,  ayl"  answered  Euclid.  "We're  all 
scared  a;most  to  death  at  Blackett.  He's  like 
a  ragin*  lion  ;  and  we  canna  go  in  nor  out  wilh« 
out  passin'  by  his  door,  sir." 


GLAD   TIDINGS.  153 

"  I'm  afraid  he'll  be  worse,"  said  Mr.  Dudley ; 
ufoi  he  is  to  pay  half-a-crown  a  week  for  the 
keep  of  his  son  Roger." 

"Then  we  shall  ha'  to  flit  somewheres,"  said 
Euclid  mournfully,  "  and  we've  lived  here  nigh 
upon  ten  years,  me  and  Victoria.  It's  hard 
upon  peaceful  folks  like  us,  and  Victoria  can't 
take  away  her  pretty  picters.  Look  here,  sir ! 
we've  been  ten  years  a-gettin'  'em  together ; 
and,  if  we  are  forced  to  flit,  we  must  leave  'em 
all  behind  us." 

Above  the  fireplace,  against  the  wall  of  the 
projecting  .chimney,  there  was  a  collection  of 
poor,  coarse  wood-cuts  out  of  cheap  illustrated 
papers,  pasted  upon  the  whitewashed  plaster 
close  against  one  another  as  they  had  come 
into  Victoria's  possession.  Euclid  pointed 
them  out  with  pride  mingled  with  sorrow  as  he 
thought  of  how  these  treasures  must  be  left 
behind  if  they  were  compelled  to  quit  the 
garret  for  otter  lodgings.  He  sat  down  with 
a  heavy  sigh  after  he  called  Mr.  Dudley's  atten- 
tion to  Victoria's  favorite  pictures. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  reading,  as  well  as  of  pio 
tures  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dudley. 


154  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 

"None  on  us  can  read,"  answered  Euclid 
"Victoria  was  always  too  weakly  to  go  to 
school  wi'  a  lot  o'  rough  lads  and  lasses,  she's 
so  nesh  and  simple.  And  little  Bess  there  is 
no  scholar :  she  gets  her  livin',  like  me,  sellin* 
creases.  Bess  is  a  old  neighbor's  child,  sir,  not 
mine ;  and  Blackett's  hated  me  ever  since  I  took 
her  to  live  with  me  and  Victoria.  He  said  he'd 
make  the  place  too  hot  for  me  then;  but 
now  "  — 

He  shook  his  gray  head  dejectedly,  and 
glanced  up  at  his  collection  of  pictures  with  a 
fond  and  regretful  gaze. 

"  I  thought  the  other  day  in  the  court,  when 
you  pleaded  for  poor  Roger,  that  you  must  be  a 
religious  man,"  said  Mr.  Dudley. 

"  Oh,  dear,  ho ! "  answered  Euclid  in  a  sur- 
prised tone.  "  I  don't  rightly  know  religion : 
it's  above  me ;  for  I'm  no  scholar.  I  should  like 
it,  maybe,  if  I  knew  it ;  and  my  wife,  she  was 
a  good  woman,  she  was." 

"Do  you  know  nothing  of  cur  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dudley. 

"  I've  heard  the  name,"  he  said  reflectively. 
"  Oh,  yes !  of  course  I've  heard  the  name ;  but 


GLAD   TIDINGS.  155 

I've  had  no  time  to  inquire  into  such  things, 
and  they  puzzle  my  head  when  I  hear  talk  of 
them.  Jesus  Christ !  Ay,  I  do  know  the  name 
well,  sir.  My  wife  knew  all  about  him,  I  dare 
say.  She  died  when  Victoria  were  born.  Poor 
dear !  She  could  say  texts  and  hymns,  —  lots 
as  I  forgot ;  but  some  on  'em  I  remembered 
long  enough  to  teach  'em  to  Victoria.  Victoria, 
my  dear,  do  you  know  any  think  o'  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  ? " 

"Not  much,  father,"  she  answered  tremu- 
lously, and  leaning  forward  with  her  pale,  eager 
face  in  gaze  at  the  stranger,  who  was  beginning 
to  talk  about  what  she  had  often  longed  to  hear. 

"You've  heard  of  Queen  Victoria?"  said 
Mr.  Dudley. 

"Ay!"  answered  Euclid,  "there's  a  many 
streets  and  taverns  called  after  her." 

"  If  you  heard,"  continued  the  stranger  in  a 
very  quiet,  yet  clear,  impressive  voice,  "that 
Queen  Victoria  was  so  rilled  with  trouble  and 
sorrow  for  folks  like  you,  that  she  had  sent  her 
own  son,  and  that  he  had  quite  willingly  left 
the  splendid  and  beautiful  palace  where  they 
live,  to  come  and  live  in  this  street  here  among 


156  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

you,  working  for  his  own  bread  like  all  of  you 
are  doing,  and  spending  all  his  spare  time 
in  teaching  the  children,  and  nursing  the  sick 
people,  and  helping  the  neighbors  in  every  way 
he  could,  nevei  growing  tired  of  them,  but  try- 
ing to  make  them  as  good  as  himself,  —  what 
would  you  think  of  him  ? " 

"I'd  lay  my  hands  under  his  feet!"  cried 
Bess  in  an  eager  tone. 

"There'd  be  no  goodness  like  that  in  this 
world ! "  said  Euclid. 

"  And  if  he  went  on,"  continued  Mr.  Dudley, 
"  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  and  year 
after  year,  never  going  home  to  his  mother's 
palace,  only  sending  messages  to  her  from  time 
to  time,  because  he  was  bent  upon  making 
you  all  as  good  and  as  happy  as  himself,  and 
fitting  you  to  go  and  live  with  him  as  his  friends 
in  his  own  palace ;  and  if  some  of  you  loved 
him,  but  most  of  you  hated  him,  and  those 
who  hated  him  raised  a  mob  against  him,  and 
killed  him,  and  he  had  only  time  to  send  a  last 
message  to  Queen  Victoria,  and  the  message 
was,  '  Mother,  forgive  them :  they  do  not  know 
what  they  are  doing '  —  what  should  you  say  to 
that?" 


GLAD  TIDINGS.  157 

"There  never  was  such  goodness!"  ex- 
claimed Euclid,  whilst  Victoria's  dark  eyes 
•were  fastened  on  the  stranger. 

"  Suppose  he  was  even  now  in  the  street,  and 
you  heard  his  voice  calling,  'Come  to  me,  all 
you  that  labor  and  are  heavy-laden,  and  I  will 
give  you  rest ! '  would  you  go  to  him  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Dudley. 

"I'd  follow  him  to  the  end  of  the  world!" 
answered  old  Euclid,  striking  his  hands  together, 
and  half  rising  from  his  seat,  as  if  to  start 
instantly  on  his  pilgrimage. 

"That's  one  o'  mother's  texts,"  said  Victoria 
in  a  timid  voice. 

"Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Dudley,  "they  are 
the  words  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  Son  of  God. 
Did  you  never  hear  this :  'There  is  joy  in  the 
presence  of  the  angels  of  God  over  one  sinner 
that  repents '  ?  Do  you  think  that  is  true  ? " 

"  Ay,  it  must  be  true,"  answered  Euclid ; 
"  for  my  wife's  gone  to  heaven,  and  she'll  have 
joy,  I  know,  over  Roger,  if  he  turns  out  good." 

"Those  are  the  words  of  Jesus  Christ,  the 
Son  of  God,"  said  Mr.  Dudley.  "And  now, 
if  you  could  look  down  into  the  street,  and  see 


158  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

such  a  man  as  we  spoke  cf,  the  Queen's  son, 
looking  round  him  sorrowfully  on  the  drunken 
men  and  miserable  women  and  wretched  chil- 
dren here,  and  you  could  hear  him  say,  '  I  am 
come  to  seek  and  to  save  those  who  are  lost,' 
should  you  believe  him  ? " 

"I  should!  I  should!"  said  Euclid,  with 
tears  in  his  dim  old  eyes. 

"Jesus  Christ  said  that,"  continued  Mr. 
Dudley.  "And  if  you  could  hear  him  say  to 
you  and  Victoria  and  Bess,  '  Let  not  your 
hearts  be  troubled :  ye  believe  in  God,  believe 
also  in  me.  In  my  Father's  house  there  is 
plenty  of  room :  I  am  going  to  prepare  a  place 
for  you  all.  And,  if  I  go,  I  will  come  again, 
and  take  you  there  myself,  that  where  I  am 
you  may  be  also.'  Tell  me,  what  would  you 
say  to  that  ?  What  would  you  think  of  him  ? " 

"  God  bless  him  ! "  cried  old  Euclid,  sobbing ; 
whilst  Victoria's  eyes  shone  with  a  bright  light, 
and  Bess  listened  with  parted  lips. 

"The  very  night  before  his  enemies  killed 
jim,  Jesus  Christ  said  that,  and  left  it  as  a 
Message  to  every  one  who  should  believe  in 
him,"  said  Mr.  Dudley  "  What  a  pity  you 


GLAD   TIDINGS.  159 

have  not  known  him  all  your  lives!  'God  so 
loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his  only  begotten 
Son,  that  whosoever  believeth  in  him  should 
not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life.'  If  you 
could  read,  Euclid,  there  is  a  small  book  which 
tells  us  all  we  know  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  Son 
of  God ;  and  all  he  said  and  did  is  as  true  for 
us  now,  as  it  was  then,  before  his  enemies  rose 
against  him,  and  crucified  him." 

"  I'm  afeard  I'm  too  old  to  learn  now,"  said 
Euclid  regretfully ;  "  but  Victoria  there  has 
plenty  o'  time,  if  anybody  'ud  teach  her ;  and, 
if  she's  not  a-goin'  to  die  soon,  it  'ud  be  com- 
pany for  her  to  have  that  little  book.  And 
Bess  must  learn  somehow.  I  never  knew  as 
Jesus  Christ  said  any  think  like  that,  'Come 
to  me,  poor  laborin'  folks,  when  your  load's 
heavy,  and  I'll  give  you  rest;'  and  'There's 
joy  in  heaven  over  sinners  when  they  repent ;' 
and  '  I'm  come  to  find  and  save  lost  folks ; ' 
ay,  and  all  the  other  words  you've  told  us. 
'They  don't  know  what  they're  doin'.'  Ah  I 
that's  true.  It's  true  of  me,  and  true  o' 
Blackett  and  Roger  and  all  on  us !  No,  no  1 
we  don'  know  what  we're  doin' ! " 


I0O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

"I'll  find  some  one  to  teach  Victoria  and 
Bess,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  and  Roger  will  be 
well  taught.  He  is  going  down  the  river  to 
the  ship  '  Cleopatra,'  where  he  will  be  trained 
for  a  seaman,  and  taught  how  to  re?.d  and 
write.  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  know 
that." 

"Oh!  if  Davy  could  only  ha*  gone  where 
Roger's  goin' ! "  said  Bess  sorrowfully. 

Mr.  Dudley  listened  attentively  to  the  story 
of  David  Fell's  crimes  against  his  country  and 
her  laws,  and  the  measure  of  stripes  meted 
out  for  them ;  and,  learning  the  name  of  the 
jail  where  he  was  now  imprisoned,  he  went 
away,  promising  to  see  them  again  soon. 


MRS.  LINNETTS  LODGINGS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MRS.  LINNETT'S  LODGINGS. 

JOHN  DUDLEY  went  away  with  a  heavier 
heart  than  when  he  came  to  bring  good 
NS  of  Roger.  If  one  boy  was  saved,  the 
other  seemed  irretrievably  lost.  He  knew  too 
well  one  inevitable  result  of  sending  boys  to 
prison,  —  the  forfeiture  of  their  only  wealth, 
the  wealth  of  a  good  name.  If  David  came 
out  of  jail  neither  degraded  nor  corrupted  by 
contact  with  confirmed  criminals, —  a  thing  he 
hardly  dared  to  hope,  —  he  would  still  bear 
about  with  him,  at  the  very  beginning  of  his 
life,  the  stigma  of  being  a  convict  and  a  felon ! 

Dudley's  blood  boiled  and  his  heart  ached 
with  mingled  indignation  and  sorrow,  as  he 
paced  slowly  along  the  narrow  and  dirty  street 
which  had  been  at  once  David  Fell's  school  and 


162  ISf   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

playground.  Scarcely  a  decent  man  or  woman 
met  his  eye,  and  his  ear  heard  oaths  and 
speeches  such  as  had  been  the  common  lan« 
guage  surrounding  David  from  his  earliest 
childhood.  Yet  what  had  the  boy  been  guilty 
of?  Untaught,  untrained,  with  no  instruction 
but  the  vile  and  coarse  lessons  of  a  London 
slum,  he  had  kept  true  to  the  only  faith  he 
had,  —  his  faith  in  an  honest  and  industrious 
father.  He  had  striven  to  his  utmost  to  be 
honest  and  industrious,  and  he  had  not  failed. 
His  crimes  had  been  —  begging  for  his  mothei 
when  she  was  dying  of  hunger;  and  resenting 
—  hotly,  perhaps,  but  bravely  —  an  insult  to  his 
mother's  good  name,  when  that  was  maligned 
by  the  man  who  had  robbed  her. 

Misery  and  degradation  and  crime  lay  all 
about  Dudley  as  he  turned  homewards ;  and  for 
the  moment  it  seemed  a  hopeless  task  to  en- 
deavor to  raise  this  dead  mass  of  a  city's  lowest 
population  from  its  ignorance  and  savagery. 
And  what  if  the  law  did  not  aid  him  ?  If  the 
best  of  these  young  barbarians,  yielding  to  his 
natural  instincts,  broke  the  laws  he  did  not 
know,  and  was  arrested  by  a  Christian  people. 


MRS.  LINNETT'S  LODGINGS.  163 

not  to  be  wisely  and  gently  dealt  with,  but  to 
be  set  foi  evermore  against  society,  every  man's 
hand  against  him,  and  his  hand  against  every 
man,  what  chance  was  there  for  him  and  his 
fellow-laborers  to  work  any  deliverance  ? 

John  Dudley  paced  along  the  streets,  deep 
in  thought,  yet  taking  unconscious  notice  of 
the  groups  of  loafing,  ill-fed,  ill-clad  lads  who 
thronged  the  causeways.  His  mind  was  ponder- 
ing over  a  book  he  had  been  reading  lately,  — - 
a  very  popular  book,  which  has  been  a  favorite 
with  all  the  upper  and  middle  classes  of  Great 
Britain.  It  was  "Tom  Brown's  School-Days." 
The  school  was  Rugby;  the  head  master,  Dr. 
Arnold,  a  man  called  to  his  post  by  God  him- 
self, and  set  there  as  a  pattern  and  example  to 
all  schoolmasters.  Every  boy  in  the  school 
was  the  son  of  a  well-to-do,  if  not  a  wealthy, 
father.  But,  oh !  the  scrapes  those  boys  got 
into,  and  got  out  of !  the  crimes  against  English 
law  they  committed !  Had  the  same  measure 
been  meted  to  them  that  every  day  was  meted 
to  these  cesolate,  degraded,  uncared-for  street- 
lads,  how  many  a  brave  and  worthy  English 
gentleman — ay,  and  magistrate  —  of  the  pres- 


164  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

ent  day  must  now  have  been  a  gray-haired 
convict  in  penal  servitude !  He  had  known 
boys  and  girls  under  fifteen  years  of  age  sent 
to  jail  for  breaking  down  a  rotten  fence;  for 
throwing  a  stone,  and  unintentionally  breaking 
a  window ;  for  snatching  an  apple  off  a  stall,  or 
a  penny  loaf  out  of  a  baker's  shop ;  or  for  steal- 
ing a  few  turnips  from  a  field,  and  a  handful  of 
corn  from  a  sheaf.  But  what  were  these  tres- 
passes compared  with  many  committed,  day 
after  day,  by  schoolboys  in  every  school  in  the 
kingdom  ?  No  doubt  the  schoolboys  were  pun- 
ished ;  but  they  were  not  cast,  in  the  name  of 
law  and  justice,  into  a  gulf  from  which  there 
was  no  clear  escape  in  this  life. 

By  and  by  his  thoughts  turned  to  old  Euclid. 
It  was  quite  plain  that  he  must  move  away 
from  his  garret,  now  Blackett's  hatred  was  so 
greatly  provoked.  Put  where  must  he  go? 
Could  nothing  better  be  found  than  that  miser- 
able attic,  with  its  thin  roof  of  slates  and  lath- 
and -plaster  ceiling,  as  the  sole  shelter  against 
the  frosts  and  snows  of  winter  and  the  hct  sun 
of  summer  ?  No  wonder  that  girl  looked  like 
a  ghost,  with  her  small,  wan  face,  and  emaciated 
frame  !  Could  nothing  be  done  for  them  ? 


MRS.  LINNETT'S  LODGINGS.  165 

At  las',  his  face  brighcened,  and  he  turned 
hastily  southwards,  towards  the  river.  He 
went  on  nearly  to  the  docks,  and  then  entered 
a  short  and  quiet  street.  A  fresh  breeze  blew 
up  from  the  water,  chilly  enough  this  February 
night,  but  giving  promise  of  a  pleasant  air  on  a 
summer's  day.  He  paused  at  a  little  shop  with 
miscellaneous  wares  displayed  in  a  bay-window 
with  small  panes,  and  with  a  door  divided 
across  the  middle,  the  upper  part  of  which  was 
open.  As  he  pushed  open  the  lower  part,  a 
sharp  little  bell  tinkled  loudly,  and  in  an  instant 
an  elderly  woman  appeared  in  the  doorway  of 
an  inner  room. 

"  I'm  coming  in,  Mrs.  Linnett,"  he  said. 

The  small  kitchen  beyond  the  shop  was 
scantily  furnished  with  an  arm-chair  cushioned 
with  home-made  patchwork,  two  Windsor 
chairs,  a  table,  and  a  kitchen-piece,  combining 
a  chest  of  drawers  with  a  cupboard.  But  the 
walls  were  decorated  with  many  cheap  foreign 
curiosities ;  and  over  the  fireplace  hung  a  highly 
colored  engraving  of  a  three-master,  all  saiis 
full  set,  and  four  little  black  figures,  represent- 
ing the  crew,  standing  at  equal  distances  along 


1 66  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

tne  bulwarks.  A  burning  mountain  in  the  dia 
tance,  in  a  terrific  state  of  eruption,  and  the 
intense  blue  of  the  sea  and  sky,  suggested  the 
Bay  of  Naples.  Underneath  were  the  words, 
"Barque  'Jemima;'  master,  Thomas  Linnett." 

There  was  no  light  in  the  little  kitchen, 
except  that  of  the  fire;  but  there  was  enough 
to  show  the  placid  and  pleasant  face  of  Mrs. 
Linnett,  though  it  was  partially  concealed  by 
a  green  shade  over  her  eyes.  John  Dudley 
smiled  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"I  think  I've  found  you  a  little  maid,"  he 
said,  "and  a  lodger,  if  I  pay  a  small  portion  of 
his  rent.  He's  an  honest  old  fellow,  or  I'm 
much  mistaken ;  and  he  gets  his  living  by  sell- 
ing water-cresses." 

"It's  a  poor  trade,"  remarked  Mrs.  Linnett 
tranquilly. 

"  He's  as  poor  as  a  man  can  be,  and  keep  off 
the  parish,"  continued  Mi.  Dudley;  "and  he 
has  a  daughter  very  sickly,  who  will  grow  well 
and  happy  with  a  little  mothering  such  as  yon 
vrill  give  to  her.  And  there's  a  strong,  bright 
girl,  whom  they  have  adopted,  and  who  is  the 
little  maid  I  spoke  of." 


MRS.  LINNETT'S  LODGINGS.  167 

"  Three  of  'em  !  "  said  Mrs.  Linnett. 

"  You  like  to  have  plenty  of  folks  about  you," 
he  answered  persuasively;  "and  by  and  by  the 
elder  girl  will  help  you  to  keep  shop,  and  Bess 
will  clean  and  scrub,  and  you  will  be  at  leisure 
to  be  my  Bible-woman.  You  shall  teach  sick 
ind  miserable  people  what  you  know  about  God 
and  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

"And  them  three, — do  they  know?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Linnett. 

"They  know  nothing,"  he  said.  "None  of 
them  can  read,  and  the  old  man  has  only  one 
idea  in  his  head,  —  how  he  can  keep  off  the 
parish,  and  bury  his  children  and  himself  in 
coffins  of  their  own.  Try  them,  Mrs.  Linnett. 
Old  Euclid  goes  to  the  market  every  morning, 
and  Bess  might  still  go  with  him,  and  bring 
back  a  basketful  of  fruit  or  vegetables  for  the 
shop  fresh  every  day.  Only  promise  me  to  try 
them." 

"You  were  pretty  sure  o'  that  afore  you 
came  in,  Mr.  Dudley,"  she  answered,  with  a 
quiet  laugh.  ".I  couldn't  say  '  no '  to  you,  as 
befriended  me  when  Thomas  Linnett  died 
away  at  sea.  Where  would  my  twenty  pounds 


1 68  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 

a  year  ha1  been  but  for  you  ?  There's  the 
front  room  upstairs,  and  a  closet  as'll  dc  for 
the  old  man  to  sleep  in,  and  Bess'll  sleep  with 
me.  I've  kep'  them  for  old  shipmates  o* 
Thomas  Linnett's ;  but  they'll  find  lodgings 
close  by,  and  my  heart  goes  after  those  two 
young  lasses  as  have  every  thing  to  learn. 
They'll  fill  up  my  spare  time  when  trade's 
slack" 

"How  often  is  trade  slack?"  asked  Mr. 
Dudley. 

"  Not  as  often  as  you'd  think,  sir,"  she  said 
cheerfully.  "Bein'  so  handy  to  the  docks, 
there's  always  some  old  mate  or  other  droppin' 
in  as  knew  Thomas  Linnett  They  step  in 
here,  or,  if  it's  fine,  they  sit  on  the  counter,  and 
we  talk  of  old  times  on  'The  Jemima;'  and 
most  of  'em  'ud  spend  more  money  in  the  shop 
than  I  let  'em.  Some  of  'em  leave  their  money 
with  me  for  safety,  and  I've  six  or  seven  sea- 
chests  in  my  room  to  be  took  care  of.  So 
there's  not  so  much  slack  time  for  me  as  ycu'd 
suppose." 

Old  Euclid  visited  the  new  lodgings  proposed 
to  him  the  next  day;  for  there  was  no  time  to 


MRS.  LII  NETT'S  LODGINGS.  169 

be  lost.  Some  caution  was  necessary  in  mak 
ing  the  move,  so  as  to  leave  no  clew  by  which 
Blackett  could  trace  them.  To  make  sure  of 
perfect  security,  the  old  bedsteads  once  belong- 
ing to  Mrs.  Fell  were  privately  disposed  of,  as 
well  as  the  broken  chair  and  empty  boxes. 
The  rest  of  their  possessions  were  packed  up, 
and  stealthily  conveyed  downstairs  at  fou* 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  Euclid's  usual  hour  fol 
being  about;  and  a  hand-truck,  sent  by  John 
Dudley,  quietly  carried  them  off.  Later  in  the 
morning,  Victoria,  pale  and  trembling,  de- 
scended the  familiar  staircase  for  the  last  time, 
and,  clinging  to  Bess,  passed  Blackett's  open 
door.  He  scowlec}  at  them  as  they  went  by, 
and  muttered  an  oath ;  but  he  did  not  rise  up 
to  follow  them.  When  they  had  safely  gained 
the  corner  of  the  street,  a  cab  took  them  up, 
and  set  them  down  at  Mrs.  Linnett's  door. 

One  of  the  many  old  shipmates  who  had 
sailed  in  "The  Jemima"  with  Thomas  Linnett 
had  papered  the  front  room  with  a  cheerfm 
paper  of  red  roses,  and  had  festooned  the  win- 
dow with  strings  of  some  foreign  beans  of  a 
bright  scarlet.  The  old  egg-shaped  grate,  with 


I/O  IN   PRISON   AND    OUT. 

high  hobs,  had  been  polished-  till  it  glittered  in 
the  firelight.  Victoria's  bed  stood  in  the  cor- 
ner, ready  made ;  and  Euclid's  was  also  ready 
in  a  little  closet  opening  at  the  top  of  the 
narrow  stairs.  Over  the  chimney-piece  hung 
an  oval  looking-glass,  cracked  across  the 
middle,  which  had  once  belonged  to  some  ship's 
cabin,  and  had  found  its  way  into  Mrs.  Lin- 
nett's  possession ;  and  on  each  side  of  it  was  a 
picture  in  a  black  frame.  Victoria  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  this  sumptuous  dwelling-place, 
gazing  at  it  with  wondering  eyes,  till  she  sud- 
denly broke  down  into  tears. 

"Oh,  it's  too  grand!"  she  sobbed.  "We 
can  never  pay  the  rent  here." 

"To  be  sure  you  can,"  said  Mrs.  Linnett, 
soothing  her  tenderly.  "  And  by  and  by  you'll 
more  than  pay  the  rent,  my  dear,  when  you 
are  strong  enough  to  help  me  in  the  shop  ;  and 
that  won't  be  long,  my  poor  precious !  There's 
the  fresh  breeze  blowing  off  the  river :  that'll 
make  you  strong.  And  there's  me  to  look  after 
you,  poor  dear,  that  never  knew  what  it  is  to 
have  a  mother !  And  father'll  be  as  happy  as 
a  king  to  see  you  picking  up  your  roses.  And 


MRS.    UNNETTS    LODGINGS.  IJ1 

there's  Bess  —  why,  she'll  be  as  good  as  a 
fortune  to  me,  I  know :  she'll  save  my  old  legs 
and  arms  so.  And  it's  a  mile  nigher  to  the 
market ;  and  Bess  shall  go  and  buy  me  apples 
and  oranges  and  green-grocery  for  the  shop; 
and  we'll  sell  all  the  cresses  as  Mr.  Euclid 
brings  home  of  an  evening.  And  you'll  sec 
if  he  doesn't  more  than  pay  the  rent  I " 


IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AN   HOUR  TOO  SOON. 

IT  was  a  constant  marvel  to  Eucl'd  how 
Victoria  grew  stronger  and  brighter.  Pres- 
ently her  pallid  cheeks  gained  a  faint  tinge  of 
red,  and  looked  fuller  and  rounder;  her  eyes 
were  happier,  and  her  step  less  languid.  She 
had  no  long,  solitary  hours  now.  Even  when 
she  was  alone  in  her  room,  she  could  call  Mrs. 
Linnett  or  Bess  to  her  at  any  moment  Un- 
known to  Euclid,  Mr.  Dudley  provided  more 
nourishing  food  for  her  than  she  had  ever  had 
in  her  life;  and  she  was  thriving  upon  it,  as 
well  as  upon  Mrs.  Linnett's  motherly  care.  It 
was  like  a  new  life  to  Victoria. 

She  learned  to  read  and  write  with  astonish- 
ing rapidity,  leaving  Bess  far  behind,  and  filling 
Euclid's  old  heart  with  fatherly  pride  in  her 


AN   HOUR   TOO   SOON.  173 

He  could  not  keep  himself  from  boasting  of 
his  daughter's  learning  to  the  saleswomen  from 
whom  he  bought  his  cresses.  His  purchases  in 
the  market  were  of  more  importance  now,  as  he 
had  to  keep  the  shop  supplied  with  fresh  fruit 
and  vegetables ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Linnett  reckoned 
his  services  as  worth  a  shilling  a  week  to  her, 
he  felt  well  paid  for  his  trouble.  "The  winter's 
woe  was  past "  in  very  truth.  He  had  lost  his 
hoarded  savings,  and  would  never  get  them 
back ;  but  wha<-  were  they  to  Victoria's  return- 
ing health,  and  the  sight  of  her  dear  face  as  it 
greeted  him  evening  after  evening,  looking  out 
for  him  to  come  home,  over  the  lower  half  of 
Mrs.  Linnett's  shop-door  ? 

The  only  sorrow  that  sat  by  their  fireside 
was  the  thought  of  David  in  prison.  Bess  was 
always  talking  of  him,  and  of  the  day  when  he 
would  be  discharged.  They  counted  the  days 
till  that  would  come.  Old  Euclid  knew  it  as 
well  as  Bess ;  and  Mr.  Dudley  pondered  over 
the  matter  as  much  as  they  did.  What  was  to 
be  done  with  David  when  he  came  out  of 
prison?  How  could  the  grievous  wrong  that 
had  been  done  to  him  be  set  right  ?  Could  it 
ever  be  set  right  in  this  world  ? 


IN    PRISON    AND    OUT. 

"Davy'll  be  out  next  week,"  said  Bess 
evening,  when  they  were  all  gathered  round 
Mrs.  Linnett's  fire.  Bess  was  sorely  troubled. 
She  could  never  forsake  David :  that  was  im- 
possible. But  would  Euclid  and  Victoria  and 
Mrs.  Linnett  be  willing  to  let  her  go  away  with 
him  in  his  disgrace,  and  lose  sight  of  her  for- 
evermore  ?  She  knew  too  well  into  what  a 
gulf  of  misery  and  degradation  she  must  fall 
with  David,  and  a  strange  horror  crept  over  her 
as  she  thought  of  it ;  but  none  the  less  was  she 
ready  to  go  away  with  him  from  this  pleasant 
and  sure  shelter,  rather  than  be  guilty  of  de- 
serting him  in  his  dire  distress.  No,  never 
could  she  forsake  Davy ! 

"There's  a  verse  you  read  last  night,  Mrs. 
Linnett,"  said  old  Euclid,  "as  has  been  runnin' 
in  my  head  all  day.  I've  not  got  the  words 
quite  true,  I  know,  ma'am ;  but  it's  somethink 
like  this  :  '  God  doesn't  want  one  o'  these  little 
young  ones  to  be  lost'  Somethink  o'  that  sort 
it  is." 

"Ay,  I  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Linnet.  "'Ii 
is  not  the  will  of  your  Father  in  heavon  that 
one  a'  these  little  ones  should  perish  Jesus 
Christ  said  it :  it's  his  words." 


AN    HOUR   TOO    SOON.  1/5 

"  It's  like  him,"  said  Euclid,  with  a  smile  on 
his  gray  face.  "  It  seems  as  if  he  was  always 
a-sayin'  somethink  beautiful.  And  just  afore 
that  there  was  somethink  about  a  sheep  going 
astray,  and  gettin*  lost  on  the  mountains,  and 
how  he'd  rejoice  over  it  when  it  was  found 
again ;  and  then  he  says  it's  the  same  with  the 
little  ones :  they  shan't  perish  either.  Poor 
Davy!  he's  gone  astray;  and  he's  no  more 
than  a  young  lamb  as  doesn't  know  the  right 
way.  What  are  we  to  do  to  set  him  right 
again,  so  as  he  should'nt  perish  ?  If  it's  God's 
will,  it  must  be  done,  I  reckon." 

"  Where  should  Davy  go  but  here  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Linnett,  in  a  hearty,  cheery  voice,  which 
made  the  downcast  heart  of  poor  Bess  leap  for 
joy.  "  If  you  and  he  'ud  sleep  together  in  my 
bed,  Bess  shall  have  the  closet,  and  I'll  sleep 
with  Victoria.  We  shall  shake  down  somehow. 
And  Capt.  Upjohn,  my  old  shipmate,  says  he'll 
take  him  with  him  to  Sweden ;  and  they'll  be 
away  six  weeks  or  more,  and  his  hair'll  be 
grown,  and  he'll  look  all  right  when  he  gets 
back.  Maybe  he'll  take  to  a  seafaring  life,  and 
then  he'll  get  on  well,  I  know." 


176  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

"Oh,  if  mother  only^knew!"  cried  Bess 
The  day  before  David's  release  from  jail  was 
a  great  day  in  Mrs.  Linnett's  little  house. 
Bess  scrubbed  every  floor,  and  rubbed  every 
article  of  furniture,  as  if  they  could  not  be 
bright  enough  to  give  David  a  welcome.  All 
the  while  she  was  thinking  of  the  many  things 
she  would  have  to  tell  him,  —  of  Roger's  theft, 
and  Blackett's  hatred ;  and  of  Mr.  Dudley  and 
Mrs.  Linnett,  and  this  new  happy  home  in 
which  she  found  herself.  Mrs.  Linnett,  who 
dearly  loved  a  little  festival,  was  making  won- 
derful preparations  for  a  dinner  far  beyond  a 
common  meal  to-morrow;  and  Victoria  was 
helping  her  to  wash  currants  and  stone  raisins 
for  a  pudding.  None  of  them  spoke  much  of 
the  coming  event,  though  their  hearts  were  full 
of  it ;  for,  lying  beneath  the  gladness,  there  ran 
a  strong  under-current  of  grief  for  the  past, 
and  of  vague  dread  of  the  future. 

"  I  wish  Jesus  Christ  was  only  here  now  ! " 
cried  Bess,  flinging  her  arms  round  Mrs.  Lin- 
nett's neck,  and  sobbing  on  her  shoulder.  "  I'd 
go  and  tell  him  every  word  about  Davy,  and 
ask  'him  if  he  thought  him  bad  enough  to  be 


AN    HOUR   TOO   SOON.  177 

Bent  to  jail.  If  he  was  livin'  anywhere  in  Lon 
don,  I'd  crawl  to  him  on  my  hands  and  knees, 
if  I  couldn't  walk,  and  tell  him  all  about  it." 

'•He  knows  all  about  it,  Bess,"  answered 
Mrs.  Linnett,  "and  he'll  make  it  up  to  him  in 
some  way.  Only  I  wonder,  I  do  wonder,  as 
Christian  folks  can  let  it  be  !  If  the  Queen  'ud 
only  think  about  it,  or  the  grand  Lords  and  the 
Commons,  as  the  newspapers  speak  about, 
they'd  never  let  it  be,  I  know.  They'd  find 
some  other  way  to  punish  children.  But  we'll 
try  and  make  Davy  forget  it  when  he  comes 
home." 

Mr.  Dudley  had  found  out  the  usual  hour 
for  the  discharge  of  prisoners,  and  it  was 
settled  that  Euclid  and  Bess  should  be  waiting 
for  him  when  the  outer  door  of  the  jail  was 
opened.  Bess  was  awake  long  before  it  was 
time  to  get  up  in  the  morning.  It  was  an 
April  day,  six  full  calendar  months  since  David 
had  left  home  in  the  autumn  to  go  begging  for 
his  mother.  Euclid  had  time  to  make  his  eany 
round,  and  sell  his  cresses  for  the  working- 
men's  breakfasts  ;  and  he  had  resolved  to  make 
the  rest  of  the  day  a  holiday.  Bess  met  him  as 


IN  PRISON   AND   OUT. 

he  had  just  finished  his  sales,  and  then  they 
turned  their  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  city 
prison.  They  were  both  happier  and  gayer 
than  they  had  been  since  David  went  away; 
but  Bess  was  especially  glad.  For,  after  all, 
in  spite  of  the  sorrow  which  cast  so  deep  a 
shadow  over  her  life,  still  David  was  coming 
back  to  her,  and  he  was  her  own.  He  belonged 
to  her,  and  she  belonged  to  him.  And  Davy 
had  always  been  so  good  to  her. 

They  reached  the  prison  a  few  minutes  before 
the  appointed  'hour,  and  paced  up  and  down 
vmder  its  gloomy  walls,  blackened  with  dust 
and  smoke,  and  towering  high  above  the  bent 
old  man  and  half-grown  girl  who  trod  half- 
timidly  under  their  shadow.  The  heavy  gates 
were  shut  close,  and  no  sound  was  to  be  heard 
beyond  them.  The  porter's  closely  barred  win- 
dow and  thick  door  seemed  to  forbid  them  to 
knock  there  and  make  any  inquiry;  but  they 
had  none  to  make. 

They  continued  to  pace  to  and  fro  patiently, 
with  the  meek  and  quiet  patience  of  most  of 
the  honest  and  decent  poor,  not  expecting  any 
t-otice  to  be  taken  of  them,  or  wishing  to  give 


AN   HOUR  TOO   SOON. 

any  trouble:  To  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  until  the 
nearest  church-clock,  and  the  jail-clock  within 
the  walls,  struck  an  hour  behind  the  time,  and 
still  the  prisoners  were  not  set  free.  Again 
the  weary  footsteps  trod  beneath  the  gloomy 
shadows,  and  both  Euclid  and  Bess  fell  into  an 
almost  unbroken  and  anxious  silence.  How 
was  it  that  David  was  still  kept  in  prison  ? 

At  length  the  door  of  the  porter's  lodge  was 
opened;  and  a  warder  came  out,  having  it 
instantly  and  jealously  closed  after  him.  Old 
Euclid  summoned  courage  enough  to  address 
him. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  respectfully,  "  is  there  any 
thing  gone  wrong  inside  the  jail  ? " 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?  "  inquired  the 
warder,  with  a  sharp  glance  at  them  both. 
"  What  are  you  hanging  about  here  for  ? " 

"  We  are  waiting  for  this  lassie's  brother,  — 
David  Fell,"  he  answered;  whilst  Bess  gazed 
up  eagerly,  yet  timidly,  into  the  warder's  face. 
"  His  time's  up  to-day,  and  we've  been  looking 
out  for  him  to  take  him  home  with  us." 

"Why,  the  prisoners  have  been  gone  this 
twc  hours,"  replied  the  warder.  "  We  let  them 


ISO  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT 

out  an  hour  earlier  than  usual ;  for  we'\  e  some 
great  visitors  coming  to  see  the  jail,  and  we 
wanted  to  get  on  with  business.  They  didn't 
make  any  objections,  not  one  of  'em,  I  can  tell 
you.  You  make  haste  home,  and  you'll  find 
him  there." 

But  Euclid  and  Bess  knew  that  they  could 
not  find  David  at  Mrs.  Linnett's,  and  they 
retraced  their  homeward  path  sadly  and  heavily. 
If  he  had  thought  of  going  to  any  home,  it 
must  be  to  that  old,  unhappy  place,  where  his 
mother  had  died  the  day  after  his  second  con- 
viction; and  thither  neither  Euclid  nor  Bess 
dared  go,  for  fear  of  BlacketL  It  was  six 
weeks  since  they  had  secretly  quitted  it,  and 
not  a  soul  among  their  old  neighbors  knew 
where  they  had  found  a  new  roof  to  shelter 
them.  They  had  trusted  no  one  with  that 
precious  secret. 

Yet  Bess  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  losing 
David.  They  must  not  lose  him.  Alas !  they 
guessed  too  well  where  he  must  be.  But  how 
could  they  get  to  him,  and  let  him  know  what 
friends  and  what  a  home  were  waiting  to  wel« 
come  him  ? 


AN    HOUR   TOO   SOON.  l8l 

The  feast  was  ready  by  the  time  they  reached 
home;  but  none  of  them  had  a  heart  for  it 
Mrs.  Linnett,  however,  took  a  cheerful  view  of 
the  misfortune,  and  assured  them  Mr.  Dudley 
would  know  how  to  find  David  without  bringing 
any  danger  to  Euclid.  Mr.  Dudley  looked  in 
during  the  evening,  and,  upon  hearing  the  news, 
started  off  at  once  in  search  of  David.  He 
was  almost  as  anxious  to  find  the  lad,  and  take 
him  home,  as  Bess  herself  could  have  been. 

David  had  been  at  the  old  house :  that  was 
quickly  and  easily  learned.  He  had  knocked  at 
two  doors,  and  been  driven  away  from  them 
both  as  a  thief  and  a  jail-bird;  but  nobody 
could  tell  where  he  had  gone  to.  At  last  Mr. 
Dudley  made  an  inquiry  at  Blackett's  own 
door ;  but  all  he  could  learn  was,  that  Blackett 
himself  had  left  his  old  lodgings  for  good  that 
very  day,  and  had  taken  care  not  to  leave  hii 
address. 


1 82  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

TWICE  IN  JAIL. 

FOR  the  second  time  —  or,  as  Ae  prison 
report  registered  it,  for  the  tl  rd  time  — 
David  Fell  had  been  committed  to  jail  for  three 
months.  David  knew  the  prison  report  was 
wrong.  More  than  this,  he  did  not  feel  that 
his  first  offence  had  deserved  so  severe  a 
penalty.  Now,  when  he  had  Ix-cn  defending 
his  mother's  good  name,  and  seeking  the  resto- 
ration of  her  property,  his  whole  boyish  nature 
rose  rebelliously  under  a  sense  of  cruel  in- 
justice. 

He  would  do  it  again,  he  cried  within  him- 
self ;  yes,  if  all  the  magistrates  and  policemen 
in  the  whole  world  were  looking  on.  Why 
should  b  is  mother  be  cheated  out  of  the  only 
treasure  she  possessed?  and  how  could  he 


TWICE   IN  JAIL.  l8j 

stand  by,  and  hear  her  called  what  Mr.  Quirk 
had  called  her?  His  mother  was  as  good  as 
any  woman  in  London,  and  he  was  ready  to 
fight  anybody  who  gave  her  an  ill  name. 

He  was  but  a  boy  still.  In  many  homes  he 
would  have  been  reckoned  among  the  children, 
and  his  faults  of  temper  would  have  been 
passed  over,  or  leniently  dealt  with.  He  was  in 
jail  for  a  brave,  rash  action,  which  most  men 
would  have  applauded  in  their  own  sons.  Each 
time  the  trial  that  consigned  him  to  an  im- 
prisonment of  three  months  had  not  occupied 
more  than  five  minutes.  Police-courts  are  busy 
places,  with  a  constant  pressure  of  affairs  to  be 
despatched ;  and  a  police-magistrate  has  not 
time  to  investigate  the  statements  of  boys  who, 
nine  times  out  of  ten,  are  telling  a  lie  in  order 
to  escape  punishment.  David  had  been  caught 
red-handed  in  his  transgression  of  the  law ;  and 
the  law,  framed  as  it  had  been  against  wrong- 
doers, swept  him,  in  its  resistless  current,  into 
jail. 

The  prison  was  not  the  one  from  which  he 
had  just  been  released  ;  but  there  was  a  mourn 
ful  sameness  to  it.      He  did  not  feel  like  a 


184  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

stranger  there.  He  had  had  one  night  free,  — 
a  night  and  a  day  with  his  dying  mother ;  and 
now  three  more  months  stretched  before  him. 
But  this  time  he  was  sullen  and  moody,  brood- 
ing over  his  injuries.  There  was  no  longer  the 
hope  to  sustain  him  of  learning  a  trade,  by 
which  he  could  maintain  his  mother  and  Bess. 
He  felt  sure  his  mother  would  be  dead  before 
this  second  term  was  over,  and  it  would  be  best 
for  little  Bess  to  have  nothing'  to  do  with  a 
brother  who  had  been  twice  in  jail. 

David  became  insolent  and  refractory.  What 
did  it  matter  if  they  put  him  into  the  black 
hole,  where  no  single  ray  of  light  could  enter  ? 
The  darkness  could  not  affright  him ;  or,  if  it 
did,  he  would  harden  himself  against  it,  as  he 
hardened  himself  against  every  punishment  or 
expostulation.  He  was  honest  and  truthful ; 
yet  he  was  branded  a  thief  and  a  liar.  He  was 
intensely  ignorant;  yet  he  was  punished  foi 
actions  which  would  hav  e  been  applauded  in  a 
gentleman's  son.  He  couM  not  put  his  wretch 
edness  into  words :  you  might  as  well  ask  of 
him  to  pamt  on  canvas  a  picture  of  his  prison- 
cell.  His  tongue  was  dumb ;  but  his  memory 


TWICE   IK  JAIL  185 

and  the  passion  of  his  heart  were  never  silent 
They  were  for  ever  muttering  to  him  in  under- 
tones of  revenge  and  hatred  and  defiance. 

David  completed  his  fourteenth  year  in  jail. 
The  heavy-browed,  sullen-faced  boy,  who  was 
discharged  from  his  second  imprisonment  in 
April,  could  hardly  have  been  recognized  as 
the  lad  who  had  gone  out,  ashamed  though 
resolute,  to  beg  for  help  the  preceding  October. 
He  slouched  along  the  sunny  streets,  under  the 
blue  sky,  bright  with  glistening  spring  clouds ; 
but  he  paid  no  heed  to  sunshine  or  cloud.  In 
old  times  there  had  been  the  changes  of  the 
seasons  even  for  him  and  little  Bess  in  their 
squalid  street ;  but  they  had  no  more  power  over 
his  sullen  moods.  He  sauntered  on,  not  home- 
wards (he  knew  too  well  there  could  be  no 
home  for  him),  but  towards  the  old  familiar 
place,  —  the  only  spot  he  knew  well  on  earth, 
where,  at  least,  he  would  find  faces  not  a*  to- 
gether strange  to  him,  if  they  were  not  the 
faces  of  friends,  and  where  alone  he  could 
learn  any  tidings  of  Bess.  But  he  did  not 
hurry :  there  was  no  mf  ther  now  to  be  hungry 
for  £  sight  of  him. 


1 86  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

Still,  when  he  reached  the  house,  he  went 
straight  to  the  old  door,  and  knocked.  A  stran- 
ger opened  it,  and  looked  suspiciously  at  him. 
There  was  no  Mrs.  Fell  there.  She  had  never 
heard  of  such  a  person.  She  had  only  come 
into  the  house  three  weeks  ago,  and  she  was 
too  busy  getting  her  own  living  to  go  gossiping 
among  the  neighbors.  She  slammed  the  door 
to  in  his  face,  and  he  heard  her  draw  the  bolt 
on  the  inside.  He  had  not  caught  even  a 
glimpse  of  the  poor,  dark  room,  which  had  once 
been  his  home. 

"  I'll  go  upstairs,  and  ask  Victoria,"  said 
David  to  himself. 

He  mounted  the  stairs  slowly  and  quietly,  — 
not  with  the  buoyant  step  of  an  active  and  rest- 
less lad,  but  with  the  hesitating,  listless  tread 
of  a  culprit.  He  was  ashamed  of  facing  either 
Euclid  or  Victoria,  and  he  was  almost  afraid 
that  their  door  would  be  shut  in  his  face.  But 
when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  last  staircase, 
leading  only  to  their  garret,  he  saw  the  door 
open,  and  he  mounted  more  quickly. 

Yes,  the  door  was  open,  —  propped  open  with 
a  brick,  to  prevent  i:  from  banging  to  and  fro 


TWICE   IN  JAIL.  l8j 

on  its  hinges ;  but  the  garret  was  quite  empty. 
There  was  no  trace  left  of  its  former  -tenants, 
ex:ept  the  pictures  which  Victoria  had  pasted 
over  the  fireplace.  All  was  gone,  —  the  broken 
chair,  the  corner  cupboard,  the  poor ,  flock-bed 
from  the  floor,  the  black  kettle,  and  little  brown 
teapot:  there  was  nothing  left  David  sat 
down  in  the  corner  where  Victoria's  bed  had 
been,  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  If  there 
had  been  a  faint  hope  left  in  his  heart  of  find- 
ing friends  and  a  refuge  here,  the  glimmer  of 
it  died  away  into  utter  darkness.  He  was 
absolutely  alone  in  the  world  which  had  been 
so  cruel  to  him. 

It  is  possible  that  he  fell  asleep  for  very 
sorrow ;  but  after  a  long  while,  as  the  dusk  of 
evening  was  creeping  on,  he  roused  himself, 
and  slowly  descended  the  stairs.  On  the  sec* 
ond  floor  he  tapped  with  a  trembling  hand  on 
a  closed  door,  and  quietly  lifted  the  latch.  He 
knew  the  workman  who  lived  there  with  his 
wife  and  children.  They  were  sitting  at  sup- 
per ;  and  the  rr.an,  calling  out,  "  Who's  there  ? " 
looked  up,  as  David  put  his  pale  face  round  the 
door. 


1 88  IN   PRISON   AJvD   OUT. 

"I'm  looking  for  my  mo:her!"  he  said,  in  a 
faltering  voice. 

"Your  mother!"  repeated  the  man,  rising 
angrily.  "I  know  what  you  want,  you  jail- 
bird !  Get  out  o*  this  at  once,  you  skulking 
thief!" 

But  David  did  not  wait  for  him  to  reach  the 
door.  He  closed  it  hastily,  and  ran  downstairs 
to  escape  if  he  was  pursued.  As  he  was  pass- 
ing into  the  street,  he  heard  his  name  called 
through  Blackett's  open  door.  He  stopped 
instantaneously,  catching  at  a  straw  of  hope. 
Perhaps  Roger  could  tell  him  what  had  become 
of  Bess. 

"Come  in,  David  Fell,"  called  the  voice  of 
Blackett  himself,  "  come  in !  Now  you're  tarred 
with  the  same  stick  as  my  lads,  you  needn't 
stand  off  from  me  no  more.  You  and  me'll  be 
as  thick  as  thieves  now.  Come  in,  my  lad,"  he 
added  in  as  kindly  a  tone  as  he  could  assume. 
"I'm  right  sorry  for  thee,  and  I've  news  for 
thee." 

For  a  moment  David  hesitated,  remembering 
his  mother's  dread  of  her  neighbor ;  but  Black- 
ett came  to  the  door,  and  dragged  him  in,  in  no 
way  roughly. 


TWICE   IN  JAIL.  189 

44  You've  come  to  look  after  your  poor 
mother  ? "  he  said  gravely. 

David  nodded. 

".She's  dead,  —  died  the  very  night  after  you 
was  booked  for  another  three  months,"  said 
BlacketL 

David  did  not  speak.  No  change  passed 
over  his  hard  and  sullen  face.  He  had  known 
it  all  the  while  in  the  dreary  solitude  of  his 
prison-cell.  He  would  never  see  his  mother's 
face  again,  —  never!  Yet,  as  he  stood  there 
opposite  to  Blackett,  he  felt  as  if  he  could  see 
her  lying  in  the  room  beyond  on  the  sacking 
of  her  comfortless  bed,  with  her  white  face  and 
hungry  eyes  turned  towards  the  door,  watching 
for  him  to  come  in. 

"And  Bess  is  gone  ^away —  nobody  knows 
where,"  continued  Blackett,  eyeing  the  boy 
with  a  keen,  sinister  gaze,  "on  the  streets 
somewhere.  There's  not  much  chance  for 
Bess,  neither." 

David  flinched  and  shivered.  Should  he 
ever  see  little  Bess  again  ?  Never  again  as  he 
had  been  used  to  see  her.  He  could  recollect 
all  his  life  through  having  her  given  into  his 


IQO  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

care  and  keeping,  —  a  younger,  smaller,  feebler 
creature,  dependent  upon  him.  He  had  played 
with  her,  and  fought  for  her.  They  had  eaten 
and  been  hungry  together,  and  had  had  every 
event  of  their  lives  in  common,  until  he  was 
sent  to  jail.  Was  little  Bess  likely  to  be  sent 
to  jail  too  ?  Girls  as  young  as  Bess  were  sent 
to  prison ;  and  the  chances  were  all  against  her 
keeping  out  of  it. 

"  Queen  Victoria  and  my  Lord  Euclid  are 
gone,"  went  on  Blackett,  with  a  sneer.  "  They 
made  a  moonlight  flit  of  it,  and  they  hadn't 
the  manners  to  leave  their  address  behind  'em 
They  carried  all  their  fortune  with  them." 

Still  David  did  not  speak,  but  stood  looking 
into  Blackett's  face,  with  a  forlorn  and  listless 
strangeness,  which  touched  even  him  with  its 
utter  loss  of  hope. 

"  Come,  come,  my  lad !  never  say  die ! "  he 
exclaimed.  "  Take  a  drop  out  o'  my  glass  here, 
and  pluck  up  your  spirits.  Take  a  good  pull 
at  it,  David.  You  haven't  asked  after  Roger, 
He's  in  better  luck  than  you.  He  cribbed  a 
parcel  of  money  from  under  Victoria's  pillow, 
and  my  Lord  Euclid  had  him  took  up  for  it 


TWICE    IN  JAIL.  IQI 

I  was  always  in  hopes  of  gettin*  him  off  my 
hands,  the  poor  hang-dog!  But  he  had  grand 
luck.  Old  Euclid  sets  to  and  pleads  for  him 
tc  the  justice ;  and  they  found  out  as  it  was  a 
sin  and  a  shame  to  send  a  lad  like  him  to  jail, 
—  a  lad  o'  fourteen  !  And  they've  sent  him  to 
school! — to  school,  David,  where  he's  quite  the 
gentleman ! " 

But  here  David  broke  into  a  loud  and  very 
bitter  cry.  Why  had  they  not  done  the  same 
with  him  ?  Oh  !  why  had  they  committed  him 
to  jail,  and  sent  Roger  to  school  ?  He  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  hot  tears  of  anger  and 
despair  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"  They've  made  an  order  on  me  for  half 
a  crown  a  week,"  continued  Blackett,  after  a 
pause.  "I've  paid  it  six  weeks,  and  now  I'm 
giving  'em  the  slip.  I'm  a-going  to  cross  the 
river  into  Surrey  to-night ;  and,  if  you'll  come 
along  with  me,  I'll  say  you  are  my  son,  and  I'll 
pay  your  lodgin*  to-night.  An  old  neighbor's 
son  sha'n't  sleep  in  the  streets.  Come,  David ! 
You  haven't  got  another  friend  in  this  place; 
and  I  -don't  ask  you  to  be  a  thief.  You  shall 
get  your  livin'  quite  honest,  if  you  can.  You're 


IQ2  IN    PRISON    AND   OUT. 

not  a  lazy  hound  like  Roger,  or  I'd  have 
nought  to  say  to  you.  But  you'll  always  be 
worth  your  bread  and  cheese,  if  you  can  get 
work.  Come,  and  we'll  get  supper  at  the 
tavern  afore  we  start." 

"  I'll  come,"  said  David.  At  the  word  "sup- 
per "  he  felt  how  hungry  he  was ;  and  he  re- 
membered that  he  was  penniless.  Blackett  had 
already  disposed  of  his  few  possessions  to  the 
tenant  who  had  taken  his  room :  so  there  was 
nothing  now  to  be  done  but  to  pick  up  his 
bundle  of  clothes,  and  his  glazier's  tools,  and, 
as  it  was  already  night,  to  take  his  departure 
across  the  river,  where  he  was  as  yet  unknown 
by  sight  to  the  police.  David  Fell  followed 
him  as  his  only  friend 


MEETING   AND   PARTING, 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MEETING  AND   PARTING. 

BLACKETT  was  as  good  as  his  woid. 
He  did  not  in  any  way  interfere  with 
David's  efforts  to  obtain  work  by  which  he 
could  live  honestly.  He  counted  surely  upon 
what  the  result  would  be ;  and,  when  he  saw 
David  start  off  morning  after  morning  on  his 
fruitless  search,  he  would  thrust  his  tongue  into 
his  cheek,  and  chuckle  scornfully,  causing  the 
lad's  heavy  heart  to  sink  yet  lower.  But  no 
one  else  was  kind  to  him ;  and,  though  he  had 
a  lurking  dread  and  distrust  of  Blackett,  there 
was  no  one  else  to  give  him  a  morsel  of  food. 
Blackett  gave  him  both  food  and  shelter,  and 
of  an  evening  he  took  him  with  him  to  the 
haunts  of  men  like  himself ;  and  amongst  them 
David  perfected  the  lessons  he  had  begun  to 
learn  in  jail. 


194  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

The  brave  spirit  of  the  boy  was  broken ;  his 
powers  of  endurance  were  gone.  He  could  no 
longer  bear  the  gnawings  of  hunger  and  the 
cravings  of  thirst,  as  he  had  done  as  long  as  he 
could  hold  up  his  head  before  any  one  of  his 
fellow-men.  He  felt  compelled  to  slink  away 
from  the  eye  of  a  policeman,  fancying  that  al] 
'the  force  knew  him.  And  he  had  indeed  the 
indelible  brand  of  the  prison-house  upon  him. 
He  had  a  sullen,  hang-dog  expression ;  a  skulk- 
ing, cowardly  gait ;  an  alarmed  eye,  and  restless 
glance,  looking  out  for  objects  of  dread.  When 
he  was  hungry,  —  and  how  often  that  was  !  — 
he  no  longer  hesitated  to  snatch  a  slice  of  fish 
or  a  bunch  of  carrots  from  a  street-stall,  if  he 
had  a  good  chance  of  escape.  To  march  whis- 
tling along  the  streets,  with  his  head  well  up 
and  his  step  free,  was  a  thing  altogether  of  the 
past  now. 

He  made  no  effort  to  find  Bess.  If  there 
had  been  any  faint,  forlorn  hope  in  his  heart, 
when  he  left  jail,  of  still  doing  something  bettei 
than  drifting  back  into  it,  it  had  died  away 
entirely  before  he  had  been  a  fortnight  with 
Blackett.  The  courage  he  had  once  bad  was 


MEETING   AND    PARTING.  195 

transformed  into  a  reckless  defiance  of  the 
laws  and  the  society  that  had  dealt  so  cruelly 
with  him.  What  did  he  owe  to  society  ?  Why 
should  he  keep  its  laws  ?  He  soon  learned  to 
say  that  his  consent  had  not  been  asked  when 
they  were  made ;  and  why  should  he  be  bound 
by  them  ?  A  rich  man's  son  had  all  his  heart 
could  desire,  and  might  break  many  of  the  laws 
of  the  land,  because  he  could  afford  to  pay  a 
fine  for  it ;  whilst  he,  David  Fell,  left  by  society 
to  live  in  degradation  and  forced  idleness,  was 
hurried  off  to  prison  for  innocent  offences  such 
as  his  had  been.  A  strong  sense  of  injury  and 
injustice  smouldered  in  his  boyish  heart. 

Summer  came  and  went ;  and  a  second  win- 
ter dragged  down  the  poor  again  to  their  yearly 
depths  of  suffering  and  privation.  David  was 
in  jail  once  more,  this  time  for  theft,  at  which 
he  laughed.  Prison  was  a  comfortable  shelter 
from  the  cold  and  hunger  of  the  dreary  mid- 
winter; and,  if  he  had  only  luck  enough  to 
keep  out  of  it  in  the  summer,  it  was  not  bad 
for  winter  quarters.  He  learned  more  lessoni 
in  shoemaking,  by  which  he  could  not  get  an 
honest  living  outside  the  jail-walls  among  hon 


196  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

est  folk.  The  time  for  that  was  past  He  did 
not  try  to  find  work  when  he  was  free  again. 
Henceforth  the  wor&  David's  hands  would  find 
to  do  was  what  God's  law  as  well  as  man's  law, 
and  Christ  as  well  as  the  world,  call  crime.  But 
whose  fault  was  it  ? 

Nearly  a  year  and  a  half  had  passed  since 
Euclid  and  Victoria  and  Bess  had  found  a  home 
with  Mrs.  Linnett;  and,  though  Mr.  Dudley 
had  done  all  in  his  power  to  discover  David, 
every  effort  had  failed.  One  July  evening  Bess 
was  crossing  London  Bridge.  The  light  from 
the  setting  sun  shone  upon  the  river,  which  was 
rippling  in  calm,  quiet  lines,  with  the  peaceful 
flowing-in  of  the  tide.  Bess  stood  still  for  a 
few  minutes,  gazing  westward  to  the  golden 
sky.  She  was  a  prettier  girl  than  even  her 
own  mother  had  thought  sadly  of  her  becoming ; 
but  this  evening  her  face  was  brighter  than 
usual.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her  lips  half 
parted  with  a  smile,  as  her  thoughts  dwelt  on 
some  pleasant  subject  apart  from  the  beauty  of 
the  sunset.  She  took  no  notice  of  the  loungers 
on  each  side  of  her,  who,  like  herself,  were 
leaning  over  the  parapet  of  the  oridge,  and 


MEETING  AND   PARTING.  I  §J 

gazing  down  on  the  river.  But,  as  she  roused 
herself  from  her  pleasant  girlish  revery,  and 
turned  away  to  go  on  homewards,  a  hand  was 
laid  on  her  arm,  and  a  voice  beside  her  said  in 
a  low  tone,  "  Bess ! " 

She  started,  in  a  tremor  of  hope  and  glad- 
ness. It  was  David's  voice, — his  whom  she  had 
sought  for  in  vain  ever  since  she  had  lost  him  ! 
But,  as  she  looked  at  him,  with  her  parted  lips 
and  shining  eyes,  a  change  crept  over  her  face. 
Could  this  scampish,  vile,  and  ill-looking  lad  be 
David?  Yet,  as  she  gazed  at  him,  a  change 
passed  over  his  face  also.  His  hard,  srllen 
mouth  softened ;  and,  behind  the  reddened  and 
bleared  eyes,  there  dawned  something  of  the 
old  tender  light  qf  the  love  he  had  borne  for 
her  when  she  was  his  little  Bess. 

"  Davy ! "  she  cried. 

"Ay!"  he  said. 

Then  there  was  a  silence.  What  could  they 
say  to  one  another?  There  seemed  a  great 
gulf  between  them.  They  stood  side  by  side, 
—  the  one,  simple  and  innocent  and  good  ;  the 
other,  foul  and  vicious  and  guilty.  Hovr  fai 
apart  they  felt  themselves  to  be  1 


198  IN  PRISON   AND   OUT. 

"Davy,"  said  Bess  at  last,  though  falteringly, 
"you  must  come  home  with  me." 

"  No,"  he  answered  sorrowfully,  "  I'll  never 
spoil  your  life,  little  Bess.  You're  all  right,  I 
see.  You've  not  gone  wrong,  and  I'll  never 
come  across  you.  I'm  very  glad  I've  seen  you 
once  again  ;  but  I  didn't  try.  Bess,  I'd  ha'  been 
very  proud  of  you  if  things  had  happened  dif- 
ferent." 

"  Where  do  you  live  now  ? "  asked  Bess, 
letting  her  hand  fall  upon  his  greasy  sleeve 
for  a  moment,  but  as  quickly  removing  it,  with 
a  girlish  disgust. 

"  I  live  off  and  on  with  Blackett,"  he  an- 
swered. "I've  got  no  other  friend  in  the 
world;  and  sometimes  he's  good  enough,  and 
sometimes  he's  'ragious.  Bess,"  and  he  low- 
ered his  voice  again  to  a  whisper,  "I  were  in 
jail  again  last  winter ! " 

"  O  Davy !  Davy ! "  she  moaned. 

"  Ay ! "  he  went  on.  "  It's  the  only  home 
I've  got,  except  the  workhouse ;  and  jail's  the 
best.  So  I  must  keep  away  from  you,  or  I'd  do 
you  harm.  Don't  you  tell  me  where  you  live, 
or  I'd  be  a-comin*  to  look  at  you  sometimes; 


MEETING   AND    PARTING.  199 

and  it  'ud  do  you  harm,  little  Bess,  and  do  me 
no  good." 

"Oh!  if  Mr.  Dudley  'ud  only  come  by!" 
Bess  cried. 

"  Who's  Mr.  Dudley  ? "  asked  David. 

"  He'd  find  you  somewhere  to  go  to,  and 
honest  work  to  do,"  she  answered.  "I  know 
he  would ;  and  you'd  grow  up  into  a  good  man 
yet,  like  father." 

"A  gopd  man  like  father!"  he  repeated. 
No,  I  couldn't  now :  I've  grown  to  like  it.  I  like 
drink  and  games,  and  things  as  they  call 
wickedness.  I  can't  never  be  any  think  but  a 
thief.  There's  good  folks  like  you  and  mother 
"and  father ;  but  I've  been  drove  among  wicked 
folks  like  Blackett,  and  I  can  never  be  like  you 
no  more.  Mother  was  a  good  woman ;  and 
what  did  she  come  to  ?  Why,  she  died  o'  clem- 
ming: Blackett's  alway  a-sayin'  so,  and  he's 
right  there.  But  she  couldn't  keep  me  out  o' 
jail ;  and  I  belong  to  bad  folks  now." 

"  O  Davy  !  Davy  ! "  wailed  Bess. 

"  Good-by,  little  Bess  !  "  he  said  very  mourn- 
fully. "  I  don't  want  ever  to  see  you  again.  If 
Blackett  was  to  see  you  now !  No,  no,  Bess  1 


20O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

you  and  me  are  parted  forevermore.  If  there's 
a  hell,  I'm  goin'  to  it ;  and,  if  there's  a  heaven, 
you're  goin'  to  it !  So  good-by,  Bess  ! " 

"  Oh !  why  doesn't  Mr.  Dudley  come  by  ? ' 
cried  Bess  again,  not  knowing  what  to  do.  For, 
if  David  was  living  with  Blackett,  she  must  hide 
from  him  where  Euclid  and  Victoria  had  found 
shelter  from  their  old  enemy.  How  could  she 
take  David  home,  or  even  tell  him  where  it  was, 
if  that  would  bring  danger  to  them  ? 

"Why  did  they  send  me  to  jail,  and  send 
Roger  to  school  ? "  said  David  with  bitterness. 
"  It  isn't  fair.  He'd  stole  money,  and  I'd  only 
been  a  beggin'  for  mother.  They  didn't  give 
me  no  chance;  and  Roger'll  get  taught  every 
think.  Nobody  can  help  me  now.  I'm  not 
sixteen  yet,  and  I've  been  three  times  in  jail ; 
and  nobody  eve/  taught  me  how  to  get  a  livin' 
till  I  went  to  jail.  And  what's  the  use  o'  learn- 
in'  any  trade  in  jail  ?  Nobody'll  take  you  on 
when  they  know  where  you've  been.  Father 
was  a  good  man,  and  he'd  not  ha'  been  willin 
to  work  side  by  side  with  a  jail-bird.  It  stands 
to  reason,  Bess.  So  I  can  never  get  free  from 
folks,  —  never  again." 


MEETJNG  AND   PARTING.  2OI 

"  What  must  I  do  ? "  cried  Bess,  weeping,  and 
pressing  his  arm  between  both  her  hands.  "  O 
Davy !  I  can't  let  you  go ;  but  I  mustn't  take 
you  home  with  me.  What  am  I  to  do  ? " 

"Well!  only  kiss  me  once,"  he  answered, 
"just  once,  and  let  me  go.  You  can't  do 
nothink  for  me :  it's  too  late !  I'm  bad,  and  a 
thief  now ;  and  all  I've  got  afore  me  is  jail,  jail ! 
I  wouldn't  like  to  spoil  your  life  for  you,  little 
Bess.  Don't  say  where  you  live ;  don't !  It 
'ud  be  too  hard  for  me  some  day,  and  I  might 
come  after  you,  and  spoil  your  life.  Don't  for- 
get Davy.  Kiss  me,  Bess !  kiss  me  just  once, 
and  let  me  go  1 " 

She  lifted  up  her  pretty,  girlish  face  to  htm 
with  lowered  eyelids  and  quivering  'mouth  ;  and 
he  pressed  his  hot,  feverish  lips  upon  it.  Then 
he  suddenly  wrenched  his  arm  from  her  grasp, 
and,  running  very  swiftly,  was  lost  to  her  sight 
in  a  few  moments  amid  the  crowd  always  cross- 
ing London  Bridge. 


2O2  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  RED-LETTER  DAY. 

WHY  had  not  Mr.  Dudley  crossed  Lon- 
don Bridge  at  the  time  when  he  was  so 
sorely  needed?  He  asked  himself  this  ques« 
tion  with  a  sharp  sense  of  disappointment  and 
defeat.  It  was  his  custom  frequently  of  an 
evening  to  go  there,  and  see  the  sunset  on  the 
river ;  but  this  day  he  had  felt  too  busy  to  go. 
Some  trifling  task,  which  could  have  been  done 
at  any  other  hour,  had  hindered  him  from  attain- 
ing an  end  which  he  had  kept  steadily  before 
him  ever  since  he  had  heard  David's  history. 

He  had  made  every  effort  to  trace  David, 
but  had  utterly  failed  hitherto ;  but  the  story 
Bess  told,  with  many  tears,  brought  fresh  hope 
to  him.  Bess  had  seen  and  spoken  with  him, 
and  learned  that  he  was  living  with  Blackett, 


A    RED-LETTER   DAY.  2O3 

There  would  be  less  difficulty  in  tracking  out 
Blackett,  who  had  made  himself  notorious  for 
many  years,  than  in  rinding  David,  whose  down- 
ward career  of  vice  and  crime  was  but  lately 
begun. 

The  next  day  was  to  be  a  great  and  memo- 
rable day  in  the  lives  of  both  Victoria  and  Bess. 
They  had  been  thinking  and  dreaming  of  it  for 
weeks.  Mr.  Dudley  was  going  to  take  them 
down  the  river  to  the  ship  "  Cleopatra,"  where 
Roger  had  been  in  training  for  a  seaman  during 
the  last  eighteen  months.  He  had  been  a 
troublesome  lad  at  first,  cunning  and  idle,  yet 
with  a  germ  of  good  in  him,  which  had  turned 
towards  David's  mother,  and  had  fastened  upon 
her  honesty  as  a  quality  to  be  loved  and  imi- 
tated. There  had  been  a  careful,  kindly,  and 
sympathetic  care  taken  of  him  by  the  officers 
on  "The  Cleopatra;"  and  both  idleness  and 
cunning  had  been  conquered.  To  allow  him  to 
return  to  a  land  life  in  London  would  have  been 
probably  to  doom  him,  like  David  Fell,  to  a 
course  of  guilt  which  must  lead  him  to  the 
workhouse  or  the  jail.  His  life  would  be  given 
to  England  in  aiding  to  carry  her  commerce  to 
foreign  shores. 


2O4  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

The  sunrise  was  as  splendid  as  the  sunset 
had  been  the  night  before.  Euclid,  as  he 
started  off  to  market,  called  to  Victoria  out  of 
the  street  that  it  was  the  finest  morning  of 
all  the  year;  and,  long  before  the  right  time 
for  starting,  Bess  and  Victoria  were  down  on 
London-bridge  Pier  waiting  for  Mr.  Dudley's 
arrival.  When  he  came,  Bess  pointed  out  to 
him  the  exact  spot  where  she  had  met  David 
last  night,  and  a  cloud  shadowed  her  bright 
face  for  a  few  minutes ;  but  it  passed  away 
gradually  as  the  vessel  steamed  off,  and  carried 
her  out  of  sight  of  the  bridge. 

"  A  number  of  people  on  the  steamer  were 
bound  for  "  The  Cleopatra ; "  for  it  was  the 
yearly  fete  day,  and  a  real  lord  and  lady  were  to 
be  present  to  give  away  the  prizes.  They 
could  see  the  ship,  long  before  they  reached  it, 
standing  out  clearly  against  the  deep  blue  of 
the  summer  sky,  with  banners  and  streamers 
flying  from  every  mast  and  along  every  line  of 
rigging.  A  boat,  manned  by  "Cleopatra" 
boys,  was  waiting  at  the  landing-stage  to  carry 
the  visitors  across  to  the  ship,  —  sunb  jrnt, 
healthy,  bright-eyed  lads  in  navy-blue,  looking 


A    RED-LETTER    DAY.  2O5 

already  like  real  seamen.  One  of  the  biggest 
of  them,  as  he  saw  Bess  staring  about  her  every 
way  except  in  his  direction,  gave  a  gladsome 
little  shout  to  call  her  eyes  towards  him.  It 
was  Roger. 

From  that  moment  Bess  seemed  to  see 
nothing  but  Roger,  so  tall  he  had  grown,  so 
strong  and  bright.  His  face  had  lost  its  scared 
and  sulky  look,  and  smiled  whenever  he  caught 
her  gaze  as  he  bent  over  his  oar,  and  pulled 
away,  with  the  other  lads,  to  the  ship's  side. 
Roger  helped  her  up  the  ladder,  and  made  her 
promise  not  to  go  anywhere  till  he  had  finished 
his  turn  of  rowing 'to  and  fro  to  the  landing- 
stage,  and  was  ready  to  guide  her  over  "The 
Cleopatra"  himself.  She  and  Victoria  stood 
looking  over  the  gunwale  at  the  gay  little  boats 
flitting  about ;  whilst  the  ship's  banners  and 
streamers  fluttered  overhead,  and  a  band  of 
music,  played  by  other  boys,  sounded  joyously 
from  the  deck,  as  boat-load  after  boat-load  of 
friends  and  visitors  boarded  the  ship.  Bess 
clasped  Victoria's  hand  very  tightly,  but  she 
could  not  speak. 

Every  steamer  brought  fresh  guests,  and  the 


2O6  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

trips  to  the  landing-stage  were  very  numerous  j 
but  after  a  while  Roger  was  at  liberty  to  take 
Bess  triumphantly  over  "The  Cleopatra,"  prid 
ing  himself  on  the  knowledge  he  had  of  a 
hundred  things,  of  which  she  knew  nothing. 
Beneath  the  main-deck  the  yearly  banquet  was 
spread  on  long  narrow  tables,  profusely  deco- 
rated with  flowers  and  fruit,  and  displaying 
more  glass  and  china  than  Bess  had  ever 
dreamed  of.  But  Roger  did  not  linger  there. 
There  was  the  forecastle  to  be  shown,  and  the 
cabins,  and  the  schoolroom,  and  the  boys' 
sleeping-berths,  where  Roger  hung  up  his  ham- 
mock, and  leaped  into  it,  curled  himself  up  in 
it,  and  leaped  out  of  it,  with  an  agility  which 
amazed  Bess.  Above  deck  were  the  masts 
and  the  rigging  and  the  shrouds  and  boats ; 
and  Bess  must  be  told  the  use  of  them,  and 
see  Roger  climbing  barefoot,  as  swiftly  as  a 
monkey,  till  he  shouted  her  name  at  a  giddy 
height  above  her,  and,  loosing  his  hands  from 
the  mast,  held  on  by  his  feet  only,  to  her  great 
agony  and  dread.  And  the  sun  that  day  shone 
as  Bess  had  never  known  it  shine  before,  and 
the  soft  winds  played  about  her  face,  bringing  a 


A    RED-LETTER    DAY.  2O/ 

deeper  cofor  to  her  cheeks;  and,  but  for  one 
heavy  sorrow  ih  her  inmost  heart,  she  would 
have  been  perfectly  happy. 

Bess  and  Victoria  and  Roger  had  a  pleasant 
little  lunch  of  biscuit  and  cheese  under  a  hatch- 
way by  themselves  while  the  banquet  was  going 
on  below.  After  that  was  over,  the  prizes 
were  to  be  given  ;  and,  behold  !  Roger  had  won 
some  of  these  prizes,  and  had  to  step  forward 
before  all  the  crowd  of  guests  and  shipmates  — 
very  proud,  yet  very  shamefaced  —  to  receive 
them  from  the  hands  of  the  real  lord !  A 
hearty  cheer  rang  in  his  ears  as  he  returned  to 
Bess  to  show  her  what  he  had  won ;  and  she  saw 

* 

the  tears  in  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  though  he 
wiped  them  away  quickly,  and  cheered  the  next 
boy  with  all  his  might  and  strength. 

Then  there  came  a  number  of  exercises  ;  and 
"The  Cleopatra"  seemed  all  alive  with  brisk 
lads  reefing  and  furling  the  sails,  running  races 
up  the  rigging  to  the  mast-head,  splicing  and 
knotting  ropes,  drilling,  and  a  variety  of  won- 
derful performances,  in  which  Roger  was  dis- 
tinguishing himself,  while  Bess  looked  on  as  n 
she  could  gaze  forever.  Could  this  indeed  be 


208  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

Roger,  the  dirty,  slouching,  miserable  boy,  who 
used  to  creep  out  of  his  father's  sight  into  her 
mother's  room?  Was  he  the  frightened  thief 
who  had  stolen  Euclid's  hoard  of  money,  and 
who  had  been  saved  from  jail  by  Euclid's 
earnest  pleading?  Or  was  she  dreaming  a 
splendid  dream,  which  would  fade  away  as  soon 
as  she  awoke  ? 

Victoria  enjoyed  this  red-letter  day  to  the  full 
as  much  as  Bess,  though  she  sat  still  more,  and 
looked  most  at  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky,  and 
the  sparkling  of  the  swift  river,  and  the  green 
meadows  sloping  down  to  its  margin.  She  had 
grown  stronger;  but  she  would  always  be  a 
small  and  delicate  woman,  not  fit  for  rough 
work.  Mr.  Dudley  had  been  very  busy  from 
the  moment  he  had  set  his  foot  on  board ;  but, 
when  the  exercises  began,  he  came  to  sit  down 
beside  her  for  a  little  while,  thinking  to  himself 
how  serious,  yet  tranquil,  her  pale  face  was,  and 
what  a  quiet  smile  dwelt  in  her  eyes. 

"  Any  thing  the  matter,  Victoria  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I'm  only  thinking,  sir,"  she  answered.  "  I 
got  used  to  thinkin'  when  father  was  away  all 
day,  and  I  was  left  alone,  before  you  knew  us." 


A    RED-LETTER   DAY.  209 

"And  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  he  in- 
qaired. 

"Do  it  cost  more  to  keep  Roger  here  than 
to  keep  David  in  jail  ? "  she  asked,  turning  her 
serious  face  to  him. 

"Jails  cost  more  than  training-ships,"  he 
answered. 

"Roger'll  know  how  to  get  his  own  livin'," 
she  went  on.  "And  he'll  marry  a  wife,  and 
keep  her  and  his  children  decent ;  and  he'll 
never  cost  anybody  no  more.  But  David  !  I'm 
thinkin'  how  he  told  Bess  there's  no  hope  for 
him  now.  And,  oh !  he  was  so  much  better 
than  Roger  to  start  with.  There  was  no  more 
harm  in  him  than  in  Bess  then.  She'd  have 
turned  out  bad  if  you  hadn't  found  us  out  in 
time,  —  all  through  Roger  stealing  that  money." 

Victoria's  eyes  filled  with  tears;  and  she 
turned  her  face  half-way  from  Mr.  Dudley, 
looking  sorrowfully  towards  the  sunny  west, 
where  the  purple  smoke  of  London  hung  in 
the  sky. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  all  through  the  Gospel  of 
St.  Luke,  sir  ? "  she  asked. 

"  To  be  sure,  Victoria,"  he  replied. 


2IO  IK  PRISON  AND  OUT. 

"Then  you've  read  how,  when  Jesus  was 
come  near  London,  he  looked  at  it,  and  wept 
over  it  'Wept'  means  real  crying,  doesn't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

"Then  Jesus  cried  over  London,"  she  went 
on.  "  That  was  real  crying,  I  know.  He  only 
saw  the  city  once,  and  then  he  wept  over  it 
I'm  thinkin'  of  that" 

"Ah!  the  city!"  he  repeated.  "Yes!  'He 
beheld  the  city,  and  wept  over  it.'  Those  are 
the  words,  Victoria  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"It's  true  of  London,"  he  continued,  —  "as 
true  as  it  ever  was  of  any  city  in  the  world. 
And,  after  Jesus  had  wept  over  it,  he  said,  '  If 
thou  hadst  known,  even  thou,  at  least  in  this 
thy  day,  the  things  which  belong  to  thy  peace ! 
but  now  they  are  hid  from  thine  eyes.' " 

He  stood  up,  and  looked,  as  she  was  doing, 
westward,  at  the  cloud  of  dim-colored  purple 
hanging  over  the  city,  with  the  golden  beams 
of  the  sun  already  tinging  it  with  crimson 
light  He  knew  well  —  but  knew  also  that  not 
a  hundredth  part  was  known  to  him  —  what 
ur.told  sorrows  and  sins  lay  underneath  that 


A   RED-LETTER  DAY.  211 

cloud ;  wLat  ignorance  and  degradation  and 
crime  were  stalking  in  visible  forms  along  its 
streets.  He  thought  of  the  jails  and  the  wcrk- 
houses  being  enlarged  from  time  to  time  for 
the  upspringing  and  yet  unborn  generations  of 
criminals  and  paupers,  which  would  eat  away 
its  glory  and  its  strength.  And,  from  the  very 
depths  of  his  heart,  he  cried,  "Would  to  God 
thou  wouldst  learn,  in  this  thy  day,  the  things 
that  belong  to  thy  peace !  " 

They  returned  home  in  a  steamer  chartered 
for  the  purpose  of  conveying  all  the  guests  of 
"The  Cleopatra."  As  they  dropped  away  from 
the  training-ship,  they  were  followed  by  the 
sound  of  music.  The  boys  clambered  up  into 
the  shrouds,  and  stood  along  the  gunwale  and 
on  every  point  where  there  was  foothold,  wav- 
ing their  shining  hats,  and  cheering  vocifer- 
ously, as  their  guests  departed.  Bess  never 
took  her  eyes  from  the  ship,  and  from  Roger 
standing  amid  his  mates,  as  long  as  she  could 
see  them.  It  had  been  a  wonderful  day,  a  day 
to  remember  as  long  as  she  lived.  But,  oh  !  ii 
David  had  been  there  as  well  as  Roger  1 

Their  first  landing-place  was  London  Bridge 


212  IN   PRISON  AND  OUT. 

It  was  already  growing  dusk,  and  the  lamps 
were  lit ;  and,  as  she  looked  up,  she  fancied  she 
saw  David's  sad,  despairing  face  leaning  over 
the  parapet  above,  and  gazing  down  upon  her 
But,  when  she  looked  again,  he  was  gone. 


VICTORIAS   WEDDING.  2 13 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
VICTORIA'S  WEDDING. 

IT  was  months  before  Mr.  Dudley  could 
learn  any  thing  of  David ;  and  then  he 
discovered  him  in  jail  again  for  theft  of  a  more 
serious  character.  He  obtained  permission  to 
visit  him,  and  had  a  long  interview  with  him ; 
and  left,  promising  to  be  his  friend.  When  his 
term  was  up,  Mr.  Dudley  found  him  lodgings, 
and  did  his  best  to  find  him  work;  but  there 
was  no  remunerative  work  to  be  procured  for 
him,  and  he  was  now  utterly  averse  to  hard 
labor  with  poor  pay.  It  was  more  than  three 
years  since  his  first  committal  to  prison ;  and 
he  had  learned  one  lesson  so  well  there,  that  he 
was  no  longer  willing  to  bear  with  starvation  or 
excessive  toil.  He  had  nothing  to  lose  by  being 
a  thief,  except  his  liberty ;  and  his  liberty  was 


214  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

equally  forfeit  if  he  gave  himself  to  uninter 
mittent  labor.  His  sole  ambition  now  was  to 
thieve  so  skilfully  as  to  defy  the  vigilance  of 
his  enemies  the  police. 

There  was  at  least  one  point  of  good  left  in 
him.  He  would  not  hear  where  Bess  was 
living,  and  begged  Mr.  Dudley  not  to  tell  her 
of  his  lost  condition.  "Let  me  go  down  to 
hell  alone,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  afeard  of  it; 
but  I  don't  want  to  see  little  Bess  there."  It 
was  in  vain  that  Mr.  Dudley  reasoned  with  him, 
and  entreated  him  to  try  again.  How  could  he 
try  again  ?  Would  any  thing  ever  alter  the 
shameful  fact  that  he  had  been  several  times  in 
jail?  or  would  any  effort  take  away  his  name 
from  the  terrible  list  of  habitual  criminals  kept 
by  the  police  ?  The  name  his  father  bore  and 
his  mother  loved —  David  Fell  —  was  inscribed 
there. 

"This  is  a  damned  world,"  he  said  ;  and  Mr. 
Dudley  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

It  was  well  for  Bess  that  Mr.  Dudley  kept 
David's  secret,  and  said  nothing  to  her  of  his 
failure  in  trying  to  redeem  him.  Roger  had 
entered  the  merchant-service,  and  was  serving 


VICTORIAS   WEDDING.  21  5 

before  the  mast  in  a  sailing-vessel  that  went 
long  voyages,  and  came  into  London  docks  but 
seldom.  When  he  was  on  shore,  his  home 
was  always  at  Mrs.  Linnett's,  where  old  Euclid 
took  a  pride  in  him  as  being  a  lad  saved  from 
destruction  through  his  mediation.  Yet  there 
was  always  a  little  dread  mingled  with  his  wel- 
come visits  lest  Blackett  should  come  across 
his  son,  and  so  discover  the  shelter  they  had 
found  from  his  hatred  and  revenge. 

It  had  become  a  standing  joke  at  the  market, 
and  amongst  Euclid's  oldest  and  familiar  cus- 
tomers, that  the  old  water-cress-seller  must 
have  come  into  a  fortune,  so  changed  was  he. 
He  looked  as  if  the  old  bent  in  his  shoulders 
was  growing  straighter,  and  his  bowed-down 
head  more  erect.  The  linen  blouse  he  had 
always  worn  as  his  outer  garment  was  no 
longer  ragged  or  dirty ;  and  in  the  winter  a 
warm,  though  threadbare,  greatcoat  took  its 
place.  He  had  become  a  very  independent 
buyer,  and  most  fastidious  in  his  choice  of 
ci  esses.  No  fear  now  that  he  must  put  up 
with  any  cresses  gone  yellow  at  the  edges,  or 
•potted  on  the  bright-green  leaf.  He  could 


2l6  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

pay  for  the  best ;  and  the  saleswomen  knew 
that  he  would  have  the  best.  He  could  afford 
to  give  more  liberal  and  larger  bunches ;  and 
his  wrinkled  face  did  not  fall  into  abject  dis- 
appointment if  he  was  asked  to  give  credit  for 
a  day  or  two.  He  was  quite  another  being 
from  the  stooping,  shuffling,  poverty-stricken, 
decrepit  old  man,  who  had  been  wont  to  cry, 
"  Cre-she  !  cre-she  ! "  in  a  hoarse  and  mournful 
voice  along  the  streets. 

It  was  the  home  he  and  Victoria  had  found 
which  did  it.  There  was  a  nourishing  warmth 
in  the  sense  of  friendship  and  fellow-feeling 
which  surrounded  him  there.  Mrs.  Linnett's 
cheery  ways,  and  Mr.  Dudley's  kindly  interest 
in  them,  made  him  feel  that  they  were  no  longer 
alone  in  the  battle  of  life.  If  he  fell  on  the  bat- 
tle-field, Victoria  would  not  be  trampled  under 
foot  in  its  fie'rce  conflict.  There  was  the  same 
hard  toil  for  him ;  the  chilly  mornings  of  winter 
were  no  warmer :  but  the  world  appeared  quite 
another  place  to  him ;  for  his  heart  was  no 
longer  heavy,  nor  his  spirit  cast  down. 

It  had  been  strongly  urged  upon  Roger  by 
Mr.  Dudley,  and  by  his  teachers  on  board 


VICTORIAS   WEDDING.  217 

"The  Cleopatra,"  that  he  must  replace  the 
money  he  had  formerly  stolen  from  Euclid. 
This  purpose  became  a  secret  between  him  and 
Bess  and  Mrs.  Linnett,  who  delighted  in  inno- 
cent surprises.  When  the  sum  was  completed, 
on  his  return  from  his  second  voyage,  he  and 
Bess  tied  it  up  in  an  old  handkerchief,  and 
placed  it  under  Victoria's  pillow,  where  her 
Testament  was  often  laid  now,  that  she  might 
be  reading  it  in  the  early  light  of  the  morning, 
as  soon  as  Bess  and  her  father  began  to  stir. 
Victoria's  hand,  groping  for  her  little  book, 
grasped  the  old,  well-remembered  parcel  of  hard 
money,  and  she  screamed,  "  Father !  father ! " 
till  Euclid  appeared  at  the  door,  looking  in  with 
a  terrified  face. 

"  It's  the  money  for  my  coffin  come  again  ! " 
she  cried,  bursting  into  tears. 

"No,  no!"  said  Bess,  between  laughing  and 
crying :  "  it's  the  money  as  Roger  stole,  every 
penny  of  it,  saved  up  to  be  given  back  to  you, 
with  his  love !  O  Roger  1  tell  them !  tell  them 
all  about  it  1 " 

But  Roger,  who  was  standing  behind  Euclid 
at  the  door,  could  not  utter  a  word.  It  felt  to 


IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

him  a  happier  time  even  than  when  he  had 
received  his  prizes,  in  the  presence  of  all  his 
mates,  from  the  hands  of  a  real  lord.  Old 
Euclid's  face,  bewildered  and  alarmed  at  first, 
changed  into  a  joyous  and  radiant  delight. 

"  Nigh  upon  four  pound ! "  he  said.  "  Well 
done,  Roger !  But  I  don't  know  how  we're  to 
spend  it,  Victoria,  my  dear.  It's  not  wanted 
for  your  bury  in'." 

"It's  for  her  weddin'  wi'  Capt.  Upjohn!" 
called  out  Roger,  with  a  chuckle  of  delight; 
whilst  Euclid  laughed  hoarsely,  and  Mrs.  Lin- 
nett  joined  him,  as  Victoria  cried,  "Father,  shut 
the  door ! " 

It  was  true.  Capt.  Upjohn,  the  master  of  a 
sloop  trading  to  and  from  Sweden,  and  an  old 
shipmate  of  Thomas  Linnett,  though  many 
years  younger,  was  about  to  make  Victoria  his 
wife.  No  fear  now  that  she  would  ever  have  to 
rough  it,  little  and  tender  as  she  was.  Capt. 
Upjohn  would  see  to  that;  and  he  would  see  to 
old  Euclid  himself,  and  provide  a  home  for  him, 
when  it  was  no  longer  possible  for  him  to  earn 
his  own  bread.  There  was  some  talk  already 
of  setting  him  up  with  a  donkey-cart,  and  so 


VICTORIAS   WEDDING.  2IQ 

putting  him  into  a  larger  and  more  respectable 
way  of  living ;  for  Capt.  Upjohn  was  a  man 
who  should  have  married  in  a  higher  rank  than 
that  of  water-cress-sellers,  and  would  have  done 
it  if  he  had  not  met  with  Victoria  at  Mrs. 
Linnett's,  and  thought  so  much  of  her  as  to 
forget  her  father's  low  estate. 

Proud  and  happy  beyond  words  was  old 
Euclid  when  his  last  and  only  child,  Victoria, 
was  married,  and  he  led  her  to  church,  her  dear 
hand  in  his,  to  give  her  away  to  Capt.  Upjohn, 
instead  of  following  her  to  the  grave  as  he  had 
followed  her  mother  and  all  his  other  children. 
He  knew  the  burial-service  well,  or  rather  he 
knew  the  ceremony  of  a  funeral,  for  the  words 
had  made  little  impression  on  him ;  but  a  wed 
ding  was  new  to  him.  He  could  dimly  remem- 
ber what  he  said  when  he  married  Victoria's 
mother;  and,  as  Capt.  Upjohn  and  Victoria 
exchanged  the  same  vows,  he  felt  that  he  could 
be  content  to  die  that  very  moment 

"I  should  like  her  mother  to  know  as  Vic- 
toria's married ! "  was  his  speech  at  the  feast 
Mrs.  Linnett  gave  in  her  little  kitchen. 

They  went  down  the  river  to   Greenwich; 


22O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

and  surely  never  was  there  such  a  day!  Old 
Euclid  declared  he  had  never  known  one  like 
it.  Bess  and  Roger  thought  it  was  no  brighter 
or  warmer  or  happier  than  the  one  that  had 
been  spent  on  board  "The  Cleopatra"  two 
summers  before ;  but  the  other  three  were  dead 
against  them.  Capt.  Upjohn  maintained  that 
there  could  be  no  question  as  to  which  day  was 
the  fairer  one.  Certainly  no  happier  party 
ever  strolled  under  the  flitting  shadows  of  the 
Spanish  chestnut-trees  in  Greenwich  Park,  or 
ran  down  the  slopes  together ;  old  Euclid  him- 
self running  far  in  the  rear  with  his  shambling 
feet,  and  his  gray  hair  blown  about  by  the 
wind. 

And  the  coming  home  again  up  the  river, 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  with  the  soft  chill 
of  the  breeze  playing  on  their  faces !  Euclid 
sat  very  still  and  silent,  with  Victoria  and  her 
husband  on  one  hand,  and  Bess,  hardly  less 
dear  to  him,  and  Roger,  on  the  other.  But  his 
silence  was  the  stillness  and  peacefulness  of  a 
happy  old  age,  free  now  forevermore  from  all 
oppressive  cares.  To-morrow  morning  he  would 
be  up  again  at  four  o'clock,  and  go  off  to  the 


VICTORIAS   WEDDING.  221 

market;  but  labor  was  no  longer  irksome  to 
him.  He  was  no  longer  drudging  merely  for  a 
coffin  and  a  grave.  He  was  not  now  without 
hope  and  without  God  in  the  world. 

They  landed  in  the  dusk,  and  brushed  past 
an  idler,  who  was  lounging  near  the  stage, 
watching  the  steamers  come  and  go.  But  he 
started  and  stared  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  them, 
and  with  a  stealthy  step  he  dogged  their  way 
home.  Not  one  of  them  looked  back.  No  one 
suspected  that  they  were  followed,  though  he 
kept  them  in  sight  until  he  saw  Mrs.  Linnett 
watching  for  their  return  over  the  half-door  of 
her  little  shop,  and  waving  a  white  handker- 
chief to  welcome  them.  Then  he  turned  away, 
and  sauntered  homewards  to  the  old  place, 
where  Euclid  had  saved  and  hoarded  and  lost 
the  money  which  Roger  had  stolen. 

"It's  old  Euclid!"  he  had  muttered  to  him 
self,  "and  Victoria  as  grand  as  a  lady,  and 
little  Bess;  and  who's  the  lad  o'  nineteen  or 
so  ?  Why,  it  must  be  Roger !  my  son  Roger ! 
And  he's  doing  well,  by  his  clothes  I  I'll  be 
even  wi'  every  one  on  'em  yet." 


222  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BLACKETT'S  REVENGE. 

IT  was  five  years  since  David  Fell  had  first 
crossed  the  fatal  threshold  of  the  jail.  He 
had  graduated  in  crime ;  and,  being  neither  a 
blockhead  nor  a  lout,  he  had  developed  skill 
enough  to  transgress  the  laws,  and  yet  evade 
the  penalty.  The  untrained  ability  of  an  Eng- 
lish artisan,  and  the  shrewd  tact  of  a  London 
lad,  had  grown  into  the  cunning  and  business- 
like adroitness  of  a  confirmed  criminal.  The 
police  knew  him  well  by  sight  or  report ;  but  he 
had  kept  out  of  their  hands  for  the  last  two 
years,  in  spite  of  much  suspicion  and  many 
hairbreadth  escapes  from  conviction.  He  was 
doing  credit  to  the  brotherhood  which  had  been 
forced  upon  him,  —  the  brotherhood  of  thieves. 
There  was  no  disgrace  for  him  now,  except  the 
disgrace  of  being  found  out 


BLACKETTS   REVENGE.  22  J 

Blackeit  had  drifted  back  to  his  old  quarters 
after  Roger's  time  was  up  on  board  "  The  Cleo- 
patra," and  he  was  no  longer  liable  to  be  called 
upon  to  pay  half  a  crown  a  week  for  his  mainte- 
nance. David  had  gone  with  him ;  for  there 
was  a  lingering  faithfulness  in  his  nature, 
which  attached  him  to  the  only  fellow-man 
who  had  not  turned  his  back  upon  him  when 
he  came  out  of  jail.  They  had  taken  Euclid's 
old  garret,  which  afforded  good  facilities  for 
escape  from  a  hot  pursuit  along  the  neighbor- 
ing roofs.  For  a  little  while  David  had  felt 
mournful  —  or,  as  Blackett  called  it,  mopish  — 
at  finding  himself  back  again  in  the  self-same 
spot  where  he  had  taken  care  of  Bess,  and 
helped  his  mother  in  her  dire  struggle  for  life. 
But  presently  the  slight  impression  wore  off. 
Blackett  made  much  of  him.  They  shared  and 
fared  alike,  and  lived  together  as  though  they 
were  father  and  son. 

It  was  a  merry  thought  to  Blackett,  that,  if 
the  magistrates  had  filched  Roger  from  him, 
they  had  thrust  David  into  his  hands,  who 
was  worth  twice  as  much  as  Roger.  He  had 
spirit  and  energy  and  brains.  The  clez  j-headed 


224  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 

sense  of  the  honest  carpenter,  his  father,  mud- 
dled neither  by  drink  nor  ignorance,  had  de- 
scended to  David  in  a  measure  that  set  him 
far  above  the  poor,  idle,  terrified  Roger,  who 
had^  always  cowered  away  from  Blackett's  sav- 
agery. He  dared  not  be  savage  with  David, 
and  his  respect  for  him  almost  amounted  to 
affection.  He  was  uneasy  and  anxious  when 
David  was  long  absent,  and  a  welcome  was 
always  ready  for  him  when  he  made  his  appear- 
ance in  the  garret. 

Blackett  said  nothing  to  David  of  the  dis. 
covery  he  had  made  of  Euclid's  dwelling-place, 
and  the  fact  that  Bess  shared  it.  Carefully 
disguised,  he  haunted  the  taverns  in  the  neigh- 
borhood  of  Mrs.  Linnett's  shop,  to  pick  up  any 
information  he  could  concerning  Euclid  or  his 
own  son  Roger.  It  was  not  long  before  some 
sailors,  coming  in  from  a  long  voyage,  fell  into 
the  trap  he  laid  for  them,  and  talked  of  the 
heaps  of  money  left  with  Mrs.  Linnett,  and  the 
numerous  sea-chests,  filled  with  valuable  goods, 
which  she  took  care  of  for  absent  seamen. 

Roger  was  gone  to  sea  again,  and  Capt.  Up- 
john had  taken  Victoria  to  visit  his  people  at 


BLACKETT'S    REVENGE.  225 

Portsmouth  :  so  no  one  was  left  in  the  house 
but  Bess  and  the  two  old  people.  It  was  a 
rare  chance,  if  only  he  could  get  David  to 
seize  it.  There  would  be  Euclid's  hoards  into 
the  bargain  ;  for  Blackett  had  never  ceased  to 
believe  he  was  a  miser,  who  had  untold  money 
secreted  in  holes  and  corners,  if  they  could 
only  make  him  reveal  his  hiding-places.  But 
would  David  do  it  ?  There  was  an  irresistible 
fascination  to  Blackett  in  the  thought  of  at  last 
fulfilling  his  threats,  and  wreaking  his  ven- 
geance upon  Euclid. 

"  Old  Euclid,"  he  muttered  contemptuously, 
"  and  Bess  and  a  old  woman  !  I  could  almost 
manage  'em  myself." 

He  set  craftily  to  work  upon  David's  imagi- 
nation, describing  the  sea-chests  in  the  old 
woman's  room,  and  their  contents,  as  if  he  had 
seen  them  ;  and  the  hoards  of  the  miser,  who 
carried  bank-notes  stitched  into  the  lining  of 
his  waistcoat,  over  which  he  wore  a  ragged  old 
blouse.  He  dared  not  tell  David  the  name  of 
the  miser,  nor  mention  Bess.  There  was  a 
soft  spot  still  in  David's  heart,  and  Blackett 
knew  it. 


226  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

It  had  been  a  slack  time  of  late,  and  all 
their  ill-gotten  gains  were  gone.  There  was  no 
longer  money  to  spend  at  the  tavern,  with  its 
many  attractions,  at  the  corner  of  the  street; 
and  the  garret  was  a  miserable  place  to  spend 
the  whole  day  in.  David  was  weary  of  having 
nothing  to  do,  and  there  seemed  no  reason  to 
him  why  he  should  not  enter  into  Blackett's 
schemes. 

It  was  a  dark  night  when  Blackett  and 
David,  having  matured  their  well-laid  plans, 
entered  the  quiet  street,  and  surveyed  the 
front  of  the  house  they  were  about  to  break 
into.  The  street-lamps  made  it  clear  enough. 
On  one  side  stood  a  high  warehouse,  empty 
and  closed  for  the  night,  unless  there  should 
be  some  watchman  in  it,  of  whom  there  was 
no  sign ;  on  the  other  was  an  unoccupied 
dwelling-house,  with  the  bills  "To  let"  grown 
yellow  in  the  windows.  There  was  no  light  to 
be  seen  in  any  casement  in  the  short  street; 
for  people  who  work  hard  go  to  bed  early.  To 
get  to  the  little  yard  at  the  back  of  Mrs.  Lin- 
nett's  house,  it  was  necessary  to  turn  down  a 
narrow  passage  beyond  the  unoccupied  tene» 


LLACKETTS   REVENGE.  22/ 

ment,  and  to  climb  over  a  wall,  in  which  there 
was  no  door.  But  there  was  no  difficulty  in 
doing  this,  even  for  Blackett ;  and  David  was 
over  it  in  an  instant.  It  was  the  dense  dark- 
ness of  a  cloudy  night,  and  the  overshadowing 
gloom  of  the  high  walls  surrounding  them, 
which  created  the  only  perplexity. 

"  It's  as  dark  as  the  black  hole,"  muttered 
David ;  immediately  afterwards  stumbling  over 
a  bucket,  the  iron  handle  of  which  rattled 
loudly.  He  stood  perfectly  still  and  motion- 
less ;  whilst  Blackett  grasped  the  top  of  the 
wall  with  both  hands,  ready  for  instant  flight. 

But  there  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  in  the 
house,  or  in  either  of  the  buildings  on  each 
side.  All  about  them  there  was  a  dead  hush, 
unbroken  by  any  of  the  numerous  noises  of 
life  and  toil  with  which  the  streets  were  full 
throughout  the  day.  As  David's  eyes  grew 
more  accustomed  to  the  obscurity,  the  dark 
sky  became  dimly  visible  overhead,  cut  by  the 
black  outline  of  the  surrounding  roofs.  This 
little,  ancient  dwelling-place,  left  standing  be- 
tween two  more  modern  and  much  loftier  build- 
ings, looked  as  if  it  was  pinched  in  and  hugged 


228  IN    PRISON   AND   OUT. 

between  them,  with  its  old,  half-timber  walls, 
and  low  yet  high-pitched  roof,  with  a  single 
gable,  arid  a  dormer  window  in  it.  He  could 
make  it  out  in  the  gloom,  as  he  stood  breath- 
less and  motionless  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
listening  for  any  sign  of  moving  within.  He 
was  not  afraid :  there  was  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.  In  three  minutes  he  and  Blackett  could  be 
safe  away.  But  he  felt  something  like  reluc- 
tance to  break  the  stillness  and  tranquillity  of 
the  little,  quiet  house.  Besides,  there  were 
only  an  old  man  and  old  woman  in  it.  If  they 
made  any  noise  and  resistance,  what  would 
Blackett  do,  —  Blackett,  who  was  always  sav- 
age when  his  blood  was  up  ?  A  number  of 
thoughts  seemed  crowding  through  his  brain, 
as  he  paused,  with  his  eyes  and  ears  all  alert,  to 
catch  any  token  of  the  waking  and  stirring 
of  the  old  folks.  But  it  was  only  for  a  few 
minutes.  A  church-clock  near  at  hand  chimed 
four  quarters,  and  then  struck  one.  The  spot 
was  as  desolate  at  this  hour  as  it  ever  could  be. 
•'We're  not  going  to  do  'em  any  hurt,  you 
Know,"  he  whispered  to  Blackett,  "for  luck's 
sake.  They  are  old  folks,  you  said.  We'll  not 
hurt  'era." 


BLACKETT  S   REVENGE.  22Q 

"No,  no  !  "  answered  Blackett,  laughing  with- 
in himself  in  the  darkness.  He  would  like  to 
be  even  with  old  Euclid,  and  pay  off  the  grudge 
he  had  owed  him  these  many  years.  There 
was  bound  to  be  a  scuffle,  though  there  was  no 
danger  for  himself  or  David  in  it.  Two  strong, 
active  men  would  find  it  mere  play  to  over- 
power Euclid  and  Mrs.  Linnett ;  and  Bess 
would  not  count  for  much.  What  would  David 
do  if  he  found  out  that  Bess  was  in  it  ?  If  he 
could,  he  would  silence  her  first,  before  David 
knew  who  she  was. 

But  though  there  was  no  light  to  be  seen, 
and  no  movement  to  be  heard,  in  the  dark 
little  house  before  them,  there  was  a  quiet, 
noiseless  stirring  within,  which  would  have 
frightened  them  away,  or  hurried  them  on  in 
the  execution  of  their  project,  if  they  had  but 
known  it.  Mrs.  Linnett  was  a  light  sleeper; 
and  she  had  been  broad  awake  when  David 
stumbled  over  the  bucket,  and  she  heard  the 
clatter  as  loudly  as  he  did.  Her  bedroom  was 
the  one  whose  window  overlooked  the  yard ; 
and  she  had  drawn  aside  the  curtain  a  very 
little,  and  peeped  cautiously  into  the  gloom 


23O  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

Blackett's  figure,  with  his  hands  upon  the  wall, 
ready  to  leap  back,  from  the  inner  side  of  it, 
was  quite  visible,  even  in  the  dark  night 
Wo  aid  it  be  safe  to  increase  the  alarm  of  the 
thieves  by  showing  herself?  She  was  afraid 
to  do  that,  lest  it  should  fail.  Her  room  was 
crowded  with  seamen's  chests,  piled  one  upon 
another,  seven  or  eight  of  them,  left  in  her 
keeping  by  old  shipmates,  who  had  trusted 
their  possessions  confidently  to  her  care.  She 
stepped  quietly  back  to  the  bed,  and  woke  up 
Bess,  who  was  sleeping  the  deep,  unbroken 
sleep  of  girlhood. 

"  Hush,  Bess  !  hush  ! "  she  whispered,  laying 
a  hand  on  her  mouth.  "There's  robbers  in 
the  yard !  Get  up  quietly,  and  slip  out  at  the 
front,  lass,  and  run  for  your  life  to  the  police. 
It's  for  me  and  Euclid,  and  the  mates  away  at 
sea.  It's  nigh  upon  one  o'clock  in  th'  night ; 
and  we  might  all  be  murdered  before  anybody 
'ud  hear  us  shout  for  help." 

So,  whilst  David  was  listening  and  watching 
in  the  yard,  Bess  was  rapidly  getting  on  some 
clothing ;  and,  as  Blackett  began  to  remove  the 
pane  through  which  he  could  unfasten  the 


BLACKETT'S  REVENGE.  231 

kitchen-window,  she  was  creeping  downstairs, 
from  step  to  step,  with  stealthy  and  noiseless 
feet.  She  heard  the  quiet  grating  of  the  tool 
Blackett  was  using,  and  her  teeth  chattered 
with  fright.  But  she  stole  by  unseen  into  the 
little  shop  beyond ;  and  letting  down  the  old- 
fashioned  wooden  bar,  and  turning  the  key 
cautiously,  she  opened  the  door,  closed  it  after 
her,  and  fled  swiftly  down  the  deserted  street. 

There  was  so  little  difficulty  in  opening  the 
kitchen-window,  that,  in  a  few  minutes,  Black- 
ett and  David  were  both  inside,  and  now 
lighted  the  small  lantern  they  had  brought  with 
them.  They  moved  about  as  quietly  as  they 
could,  though  they  had  no  fear  of  the  conse- 
quences of  arousing  the  inmates,  whom  they 
could  easily  gag  and  bind  if  need  be.  But 
there  was  still  no  sign  or  sound  of  waking  in 
the  house.  Mrs.  Linnett,  indeed,  was  standing 
within  her  room,  with  her  door  ajar,  hearken- 
ing, and  peering  down  the  staircase,  and  won- 
dering, as  she  trembled  with  dread,  how  long 
Bess  would  be ;  but  they  could  not  know  she 
was  watching  for  them  until  they  went  upstairs, 

And  now  fly,  Bess!  fly!     If  you  meet  any 


232  IN    PRISON     AND    OUT. 

belated  wayfarer  in  the  street,  or  see  the  light 
of  any  watcher  in  a  window,  give  the  alarm 
quickly.  Give  way  to  no  terror  that  might 
hinder  you.  Every  minute  is  worth  more  than 
you  can  count.  Run  swiftly — for  old  Euclid, 
fast  asleep  after  the  day's  toil  ;  for  Mrs.  Lin- 
nett,  shivering  with  helpless  fright ;  for  the 
mates  at  sea,  and  for  Roger,  whose  goods  arc 
in  danger.  And  yet,  Bess,  if  you  did  but  know 
who  it  is  that  has  broken  into  your  quiet  house 
as  a  thief  and  a  robber,  you  would  fly  back 
more  swiftly  than  you  are  running  for  help  ;  and 
with  your  arms  about  his  neck,  as  when  you 
were  little  children  together,  and  your  voice 
pleading  in  his  ear,  you  might  save  him  even 
now  at  the  last  moment  ! 

Blackett  cast  a  glance  over  the  little  shop 
with  its  miscellaneous  wares,  and  round  the 
small  kitchen  ;  but  it  was  plain  there  was  no 
booty  there.  The  miser's  hoard  and  the  sea- 
men's chests  must  be  in  the  bedrooms,  and 
they  wasted  no  more  time  before  mounting  the 
narrow  and  winding  staircase.  Euclid  was  not 
sleeping  in  his  closet,  as  Victoria  was  away  ; 
and  the  door  of  the  front  room  stood  at  the  too 


BLACKETTS   REVENGE.  233 

of  the  crooked  stairs.  They  pushed  it  open, 
ind  the  light  of  their  lantern  fell  full  upon  the 
Did  man's  face. 

"  Why,  it's  old  Euclid  ! "  shouted  David  in  a 
loud  and  angry  voice. 

"Ay,  ay!  Is  it  time  to  be  stirring?"  he 
asked,  rousing  himself,  and  looking  up  in  be- 
wilderment. 

"  Curse  you  !  you  never  told  me  who  it  was  !  ' 
cried  David,  turning  fiercely  upon  Blackett. 

But  the  old  man  had  already  sprung  up,  for- 
getful of  his  feebleness ;  and,  calling  upon  Mrs. 
Linnett  to  fasten  herself  in  her  room,  he  flung 
himself  with  desperate  courage  upon  Blackett. 
Blackett  shook  him  off  with  ease,  and,  seizing 
him  by  the  throat,  threw  him  down  on  the  floor, 
and  knelt  upon  his  chest,  with  a  savage  cruelty 
in  his  eyes. 

"  Get  up ! "  cried  David,  struggling  to  pull 
him  away:  "you  sha'n't  murder  him,  and  me 
stand  by." 

"I'll  half -murder  him,"  muttered  Blackett 
"  I'll  have  my  revenge." 

Then  began  a  deadly  conflict  between  them ; 
Euclid,  as  soon  as  Blackett's  hand  was  off  his 


234  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

throat,  helping  in  the  fray  with  the  feeble 
daring  of  old  age.  The  chair  on  which  David 
had  set  down  the  lantern  was  upset ;  and  the 
light  went  out,  leaving  them  in  utter  darkness 
as  they  swayed  to  and  fro  about  the  room, 
never  loosing  one  another,  amid  oaths  and 
threats,  and  smothered  groans  from  Euclid, 
growing  fainter  and  fainter,  as  Blackett  and 
David  fought  above  him. 

But  now  Bess  was  speeding  back  again,  with 
two  policemen  running  at  a  few  paces  behind 
her.  The  clanking  of  their  footsteps  on  the 
pavement  below  was  the  first  sound  which 
broke  in  upon  the  struggle,  and  brought  it  to  a 
pause.  David  heard  it  first,  and  loosed  his 
grasp  of  Blackett  in  an  instant.  The  steps 
had  not  ye.t  reached  the  door ;  and  in  a  moment 
he  was  down  the  staircase,  and  ready  for  flight 
by  the  way  he  had  come.  But  Bess,  whose 
light,  swift  feet  had  made  no  noise,  was  already 
within  the  house;  and  she  sprang  forward  to 
arrest  him,  clasping  him  in  her  strong  young 
arms  with  a  vehement  and  tenacious  grasp, 
from  which  he  could  not  free  himself.  The 
policemen  were  but  a  few  paces  behind  her. 


BLACKETTS   REVENGE.  235 

"  Oh  !  be  quick !  "  she  called.  "  He's  here !  I 
can't  hold  him  long." 

Her  voice  was  shrill  and  strained  ;  but  David 
knew  it  too  well.  It  was  Bess  who  was  holding 
him  with  such  passionate  strength,  and  his  own 
strength  seemed  to  melt  away  at  the  sound  of 
her  cry.  The  little  sister  he  had  loved  so  well, 
and  been  so  proud  of, — his  poor  mother's  little 
lass! 

"  Bess,"  he  groaned,  "  it's  me  —  David ! " 
.  With  a  wild,  terrified,  heart-broken  shriek, 
the  girl's  arms  fell  from  their  close  grasp  of 
him,  and  she  sank  to  the  ground  at  his  feet  as 
if  he  had  struck  her  a  deadly  blow.  But,  had 
he  wished  it,  there  was  no  time  to  escape ;  for 
the  foremost  policeman  caught  him  firmly  by 
the  arm,  and  held  it  as  if  it  had  been  in  a  vise. 

"  If  you  want  to  hinder  murder,"  cried  David, 
"  be  sharp  upstairs.  Take  me  along  with  you ; 
but,  for  God's  sake,  lose  no  time." 

Were  they  in  time  ?  or  was  it  already  too 
late?  Old  Euclid  lay  motionless  on  the  floor, 
his  withered  face  and  gray  hair  stained  with 
blood ;  and  Mrs.  Linnett  was  kneeling  beside 
him,  calling  to  him  to  speak,  or  look  up  at 


236  IN    PRISON     AND    OUT. 

her.  The  window  was  open,  showing  the  way 
by  which  the  murderer  had  escaped.  The 
second  ^policeman  started  off  at  once  in  pursuit 
of  him  ;  whilst  the  other,  who  dared  not  loose 
his  hold  of  David,  looked  on  at  Mrs.  Linnett's 
vain  attempt  to  raise  the  old  man,  and  lay  him 
on  his  bed.  The  whole  room  was  in  disorder  ; 
for  the  short  struggle  had  been  very  violent. 

"I'm  David  Fell,"  said  the  prisoner  in  a 
strange  and  lamentable  voice.  "  I  never  knew 
as  it  was  old  Euclid  we  were  goin'  to  rob.  I'd 
ha'  cut  off  my  right  hand  first.  Handcuff  me, 
and  tie  my  feet  together,  if  you  can.  Only  see 
if  the  old  man's  dead  or  not." 

"  Nay,  I  must  see  you  safe  first,"  the  police- 
man answered.  "  None  o'  your  tricks  and 
dodges  for  me.  Come  along,  and  I'll  send  help 
as  soon  as  I  can." 

Bess  was  crouching  on  the  floor  downstairs, 
slowly  coming  to  her  senses  ;  and  David  stood 
still  for  a  moment,  as  the  light  of  the  police- 
man's lantern  lit  up  her  white  and  scared  face, 
and  terrified  eyes. 

"  She's  my  sister,"  said  David  again,  in  the 
same  strange  and  lamentable  voice.  "  Bess,  I'd 


BLACKETT'S  REVENGE.  237 

sooner  have  drowned  myself  in  the  river  than 
come  here  to  spoil  your  life  !" 

Bess  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  shiver- 
fng,  and  listened,  in  faint  and  deadly  sickness, 
to  the  sound  of  David's  retreating  footsteps, 
till  they  were  lost  in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 


238  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

WHO  IS   TO  BLAME? 

WHEN  Bess,  after  a  few  minutes  of 
almost  deadly  anguish,  crept  feebly 
upstairs,  she  found  Mrs.  Linnett  still  kneeling 
beside  old  Euclid,  who  was  stretched  upon  the 
floor.  The  policeman's  lamp,  set  upon  the 
mantel-shelf,  lit  up  his  Blood-stained  face  and 
hair,  and  displayed  the  disorder  of  the  room. 
She  helped  Mrs.  Linnett  to  lift  up  the  old  man, 
and  lay  him  on  the  bed ;  and  then  she  sped  away 
again  to  fetch  a  doctor,  though  not  so  swiftly  as 
she  ran  before  for  help  against  the  housebreak 
ers.  Would  she  ever  run  so  fast  again  ? 

By  the  time  she  returned,  a  woman  had  been 
sent  from  the  police-station,  and  a  policeman 
was  on  duty  in  the  house.  The  doctor,  who 
followed  her  quickly,  after  a  brief  examination 


WHO   IS   TO    BLAME?  239 

of  old  Euclid,  said  he  could  discover  nj  serious 
wound,  but  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell  how 
grave  the  injuries  he  had  sustained  might 
prove.  He  had  the  blood  washed  from  his 
face  and  hair;  and,  after  that,  Euclid  lay  still, 
much  as  if  he  had  been  asleep  :  only  his  pulses 
beat  very  faintly,  and  life  seemed  to  have  ebbed 
away  to  its  lowest  tide. 

The  morning  came ;  and  policemen  were 
coming  and  going  all  day  long,  examining  the 
premises,  and  asking  the  same  questions  over 
and  over  again,  —  or  so  it  seemed  to  Bess. 
Neighbors  crowded  in  to  chat  with  Mrs.  Lin- 
nett  about  the  perils  of  the  night,  and  to  take 
a  peep  at  the  unconscious  old  man,  who  had 
been  almost,  if  not  quite,  mur  lered.  The  ques- 
tion was,  whether  he  would  d.e  or  live.  David 
refused  to  give  up  his  accomplice ;  but  Blackett 
had  been  arrested  on  suspicion.  Nothing  more 
could  be  done  until  Euclid's  consciousness  re- 
turned, —  if  it  ever  returned,  —  and  he  could 
give  his  evidence.  A  policeman  was  stationed 
there  until  this  should  happen.  At  last  night 
came  on  again,  and  Bess,  refusing  to  leave  old 
Euclid,  persuaded  Mrs.  Linnett  to  go  to  bed; 


24O  IN    PRISON    AND    OUT. 

whilst  the  doctor,  finding  three  or  four  neigh- 
bors whispering  and  buzzing  in  the  room, 
ordered  them  all  iway,  and  told  Bess  to  watch 
him  by  herself.  She  sat  beside  him  hour  after 
hour,  sleepless,  yet  almost  stupefied  by  her 
sorrow.  Could  it  be  true  that  David  had  done 
this  cruel,  wicked  deed  ?  And,  oh !  if  Euclid 
died,  what  would  be  done  to  him  ?  The  sick- 
ness of  despair  filled  her  whole  heart  as  this 
thought  came  back  to  her  in  spite  of  all  her 
efforts  to  shut  it  out 

"  Bess,"  whispered  a  very  low,  faint  voice,  in 
the  dead  of  the  night,  "  it  was  our  David  ! " 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  back  again  in  Euclid's 
ear.  But  a  deep  throb  of  agony  struck  through 
her  as  she  heard  him  say  it  was  David. 

"He  fought  for  me  agen  Blackett,"  said 
Euclid.  "  He  saved  my  life.  Blackett  'ud  ha' 
murdered  me." 

With  a  loud  sob,  Bess  fell  on  her  knees  by 
the  bedside.  Thank  God,  David  was  not  as 
bad  as  he  had  seemed !  He  had  not  joined 
svith  Blackett  in  his  savage  purpose.  David 
*ras  not  a  murderer !  Oh,  what  a  load  seemed 
suddenly  rolled  away  from  her  girlish  heart? 
Her  brother  was  only  a  thief  I 


WHO    IS    TO    BLAME  ?  24! 

"  He  saved  my  life,"  murmured  old  Euclid 
over  and  over  again,  as  though  his  brain  was 
bewildered  still.  "  Bess,  he  saved  my  life." 

His  faculties  came  back  to  him  very  slowly  ; 
and  it  was  two  or  three  days  before  he  recov- 
ered the  full  possession  of  his  memory,  so  as  to 
be  able  to  make  a  deposition  before  a  magis- 
trate. Blackett  and  David  were  committed  to 
take  their  trial  at  the  Central  Criminal  Court. 
Victoria  had  come  back  to  help  to  nurse  her 
father  ;  and  for  a  short  time  their  life  fell  back 
into  its  old  course,  excepting  that  Euclid  no 
longer  started  off  for  the  market  every  morning. 

But  the  dreaded  day  came  at  last,  when 
Euclid  and  Mrs.  Linnett,  and  poor  Bess  herself, 
were  compelled  to  appear  at  the  sessions  and 
give  their  evidence  against  David  and  Blackett. 
Mr.  Dudley  had  engaged  counsel  to  defend 
David,  that  every  fact  in  his  favor  might  be 
made  public,  and  his  sentence,  in  consequence, 
be  mitigated.  There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a 
hope  of  an  acquittal. 

When  Bess  stood  up  in  the  witness-box,  she 
saw  only  two  faces  clearly.  There  was  David, 
pale,  abject,  frightened,  with  bent  head,  and 


242  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

dim,  mournful  eyes  fastened  upon  her;  and 
there  was  the  judge  opposite  to  her,  calm  and 
grave,  with  a  searching  keenness  in  his  gaze. 
As  she  told  her  name,  David's  lips  moved  a 
little,  as  though  he  was  repeating  it  to  himself. 

Unconsciously,  merely  answering  the  ques- 
tions put  to  her,  Bess  told  the  story  of  David's 
two  first  convictions,  and  the  sorrow  they  ha$ 
wrought. 

"  He  was  always  a  good  boy  to  mother  and 
me,"  she  said,  sobbing;  "and  he's  good  to  me 
still.  He'd  never  be  told  where  I  lived  for  fear 
he'd  spoil  my  life.  O  Davy  !  Davy  ! " 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  stretched  out  her 
arms  to  him,  as  if  she  would  throw  them  about 
his  bowed-down  head,  and  cling  to  him  in  face 
of  them  all,  in  spite  of  his  deep  disgrace. 
David  laid  his  head  on  the  bar  at  which  he 
stood,  and  shook  with  the  sobs  he  forced  him- 
self to  control. 

He  did  not  look  up  again  till  Euclid  was 
taking  the  oath.  The  old  man  appeared  many 
years  older  than  he  had  done  before  the  mur- 
derous attack  made  upon  him.  His  gray  hair 
was  quite  white  and  his  cheeks  and  temples 


\VHO    IS   TO    BLAME?  243 

had  fallen  in  like  those  of  a  very,  aged  man  ; 
but  he  smiled  at  David,  and  nodded  affection- 
ately. So  far  as  the  cruel  assault  upon  himself 
went,  he  completely  cleared  him  :  it  was  Black- 
ett  alone  that  had  maltreated  him. 

"  David  Fell  never  lifted  up  his  hand  agen 
me,  my  lord  and  judge,"  said  Euclid  warmly 
and  energetically.  "He  fought  for  me,  and 
I'd  ha'  been  a  murdered  man  this  minute  but 
for  him.  Why,  I've  known  David  ever  since 
he  was  this  high,  and  he'd  ha'  made  a  good 
man  if  he'd  had  a  chance.  He  hadn't  a  chance 
after  he'd  been  sent  to  jail,  and  his  mother  was 
as  good  a  woman  as  ever  you  see." 

At  the  mention  of  his  mother,  David's  face 
grew  as  pale  as  death,  and  his  lips  quivered 
He  fancied  he  could  hear  her  voice  calling  his 
name.  For  years  past  he  had  tried  to  deaden 
the  memory  of  her ;  but  now  it  seemed  as  if  he 
could  see  her  plainly,  sitting  by  the  dim,  red  light 
of  a  handful  of  embers,  talking  to  him  and  Bess 
about  their  father.  To  work  hard  and  honesty 
as  his  father  had  dons  had  been  his  mother's  re- 
ligion, —  the  simple  code  of  duty  she  had  tried  to 
teach  him.  Thank  God,  his  mother  was  in  her 
gra\e.  and  knew  nothing  of  his  guilt  and  shame  1 


244  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

His  brain  grew  weary,  and  he  ceased  to  take 
notice  of  what  was  going  on  after  Euclid  dis- 
appeared. Different  men  stood  up  and  spoke,  — 
some  fora  minute  or  two,  others  for  longer;  but 
he  did  not  understand  them  :  their  speech  was 
as  a  foreign  tongue  to  him.  His  previous 
convictions  had  been  very  summary,  and  the 
proceedings  now  appeared  complicated  and  per- 
plexing. Why  were  they  so  long  over  this 
trial  ?  Everybody  knew  he  had  broken  into 
the  house  for  the  purpose  of  robbery.  His 
first  two  trials,  when  he  was  a  young  lad,  had 
tu)t  occupied  five  minutes  each.  Why  were 
they  so  much  more  careful  of  him  now  when  it 
was  too  late  ? 

At  last  his  wandering  attention  was  caught 
by  the  utterance  of  his  mother's  name.  He 
turned  his  eyes  to  the  speaker,  and  never  with- 
drew them  from  his  face  until  he  ceased  to 
speak.  It  was  the  counsel  whom  Mr.  Dudley 
had  engaged  for  him. 

"  Elizabeth  Fell  was  left  a  widow  at  the  age 
of  twenty-four,  with  a  boy  and  a  girl  to  provide 
for.  What  aid  did  we  offer  her  ?  We  told  her 
*he  might  take  refuge  in  our  workhouse,  among 


WHO    IS    TO   BLAME?  245 

the  outcasts  and  profligates  of  her  sex,  where 
we  would  take  from  her  her  children,  who  were 
as  dear  to  her  as  our  children  are  to  their 
mothers,  and  bring  them  up  apart  from  her.  II 
she  refused  such  an  offer,  we  would  leave  her  tc 
fight  her  battle  alone.  She  chose  drudgery  ar.d 
hunger — a  terrible  disease,  and  death  itself  — 
rather  than  take  our  aid  on  our  terms. 

"When  she  lay  dying,  gnawed  by  famine, 
with  a  mere  pittance  of  out-door  relief,  her  son, 
a  lad  under  fourteen  years  of  age,  ventuied 
tfj  go  out  and  beg  for  his  mother.  He  was 
ashamed  to  beg,  willing,  on  the  other  hand,  f- 
work,  having  an  ambition  to  tread  in  the  steps 
of  his  father,  the  honest  and  skilful  artisan. 
What  did  we  do  for  Elizabeth  Fell's  child  t 
We  arrested  him,  dragged  him  before  a  hurried 
and  over-worked  magistrate,  omitted  to  investi 
gate  his  statements,  and,  after  a  brief  trial  oJ 
four  or  five  minutes,  sent  him  to  jail  for  three 
months.  This  was  in  England ! 

"  David  Fell  hastened  home,  when  his  first 
imprisonment  was  ended,  to  find  his  mother 
still  alive,  but  on  her  death-bed.  In  her  dire  ex 
tremity  she  had  parted  with  the  most  sacred 


246  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

treasure  she  possessed,  —  her  wedding-ring  , 
and  she  and  her  young  daughter  had  literally 
starved  themselves  to  redeem  this  sacred  sym- 
bol. It  was  redeemed  the  day  after  David  Fell's 
release  from  jail ;  but  the  ring  given  back  by  the 
pawnbroker  was  not  the  familiar,  precious  relic, 
so  perfectly  known  to  them  all.  It  had  either 
been  sweated  by  the  dishonest  pawnbroker, 
or  exchanged  for  another  and  a  thinner  ring. 
The  lad,  in  a  passion  of  mingled  grief  and  re- 
sentment, rushes  away  to  secure  his  mother's 
own  wedding-ring.  The  man  assailed  his  dying 
mother's  good  fame;  and,  utterly  reckless  of 
all  consequences,  David  Fell  sprang  upon  him 
in  a  frenzy  of  hot  resentment,  and  felled  him  to 
the  ground.  The  pawnbroker  was  a  house- 
holder and  a  rate-payer.  Once  again  there  was 
no  investigation  made.  No  credence  was  given 
to  the  boy's  angry  and  bewildered  statements. 
We  committed  him  a  second  time  to  jail  for 
three  months. 

"  These  were  the  two  first  steps  —  two  long 
stages  —  on  the  road  to  ruin,  —  the  road  which 
has  led  him  to  this  bar  to-day.  Who  is  to 
blame  ?  —  the  lad,  willing  to  work,  but  untaught 


WHO    IS   TO   BLAME?  247 

and  awkward,  with  no  training  but  thai  of  the 
street,  whom  no  man  would  hire  for  his  want 
of  skill  and  dexterity  ?  or  the  magistrate,  over- 

+ 

worked  with  a  pressure  of  serious  business  ?  or 
the  police,  with  their  legion  of  juvenile  crimi- 
nals, whose  statements  are  mostly  falsehoods  ? 
The  magistrate  cannot  give  the  time,  the  police 
cannot  give  the  trouble,  to  investigate  cases 
like  David  Fell's. 

"  The  boy  was  like  other  boys,  our  sons,  with 
high  spirits  and  heedless  heads.  Have  we  never 
known  our  sons  beg  —  ay,  and  beg  importu- 
nately — for  what  they  want  ?  Do  they  not  fight 
at  times  on  a  tenth  part  of  the  provocation  this 
boy  had?  I  will  go  further.  Have  none  of 
them  ever  been  guilty  of  some  small  theft? 
Would  you  send  those  thoughtless,  passionate 
lads  of  yours,  who  are  to  come  after  you  in 
life  as  citizens  standing  in  the  places  you  win 
for  them, — would  you  send  them,  for  such 
crimes  as  David  Fell  committed, — begging  for 
his  dying  mother,  and  defending  her  good 
name,  —  to  the  black  shadow  of  a  jail,  and  the 
ieep  brand  of  imprisonment  ?  Would  you  bind 
your  boys  hand  and  foot,  and  cast  them  into  a 


248  IN     PRISON     AND    OUT. 

gulf,  and,  if  they  crawled  out  of  it,  crush  them 
down  again,  because  they  brought  with  them 
the  mire  and  clay  of  the  pit  ?  Yet  this  is  what 
we  do  with  our  juvenile  criminals. 

"  The  prisoner  is  guilty  of  burglary.  He 
is  not  yet  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  he  has 
been  already  four  times  in  jail.  I  ask  again, 
Whose  fault  is  it  ? 

"  He  must  be  punished  ?  True.  But  let 
the  penalty —too  well  deserved  this  time — be 
tempered  with  mercy.  We  have  tried  se- 
verity. We  have  confounded  his  sense  of  right 
and  wrong  :  it  is  we  who  have  extinguished  the 
feeble  glimmer  of  light  his  poor  mother  had 
kindled  in  his  conscience.  I  ask  you  to  re- 
member the  prisoner's  sad  career,  his  devotion 
to  his  mother,  his  love  for  his  young  sister,  his 
defence  of  the  old  man  from  the  murderous 
attack  made  upon  him.  I  ask  you  to  remember, 
that,  whilst  he  was  yet  a  child,  in  this  Christian 
land  of  ours,  we  sent  him  once  and  again  to  jail 
as  the  fitting  penalty  for  childish  faults." 

David  heard  no  more,  nor  had  he  fully  un- 
derstood the  words  he  had  listened  to.  His 
throat  was  parched,  and  his  sight  was  dim.  The 


WHO    IS   TO    BLAME?  249 

court  seemed  filled  with  mist,  which  blurred 
all  the  faces  around  him.  He  stood  at  the  bar 
for  a  very  long  time  yet  before  the  policeman 
next  to  him  nudged  him  roughly,  and  bade  him 
attend  to  his  lordship. 

"  Have  you  any  thing  to  say  for  yoursell  ? ' 
asked  the  judge. 

"  Nothing :  only  I'd  ha'  drownded  myseli 
before  I'd  ha'  hurt  little  Bess  or  old  Euclid," 
he  stammered. 

In  a  few  minutes  after,  he  was  led  down  a  stair- 
case into  a  room  on  the  floor  below  the  court, 
and  a  policeman  was  fitting  him  with  handcuffs. 

"What  are  they  goin'  to  do  with  Blackett 
and  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Didn't  you  hear  the  sentence?"  rejoined 
the  policeman. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I  can't  see  nor  hear 
nothin'  plain." 

"Ten  years  for  Blackett,"  was  the  rep'yi 
*  and  two  for  you.  You're  let  off  pretty  easy  ** 


25O  IN    PRISON   AND   OUl 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

THROUGH  JAIL  TO   THE   GRAVE. 

DAVID  returned  to  jail  broken-hearted 
and  weary  of  life.  Circumstances  had 
thrust  him  into  a  career  to  which  he  had  no'; 
been  born :  he  could  not  drift  with  the  tide  that 
was  rapidly  sweeping  him  down  to  utter  rascal- 
dom. His  early  training,  and  his  faithful  love 
for  his  mother  and  sister,  set  him  at  odds 
with  the  mass  of  young  thieves  born  and  bred 
amid  the  lowest  dregs  of  the  London  populace. 
There  had  always  been  a  vital  difference  be- 
tween hirn  and  them. 

He  had  never  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  an 
ach.'ng  sense  of  degradation  and  loss  lurking 
beneath  the  artificial  pleasure  Blackett  had 
taught  him  to  feel  in  the  vicious  habits  of  men 
like  himself.  He  had  learned  to  associate  with 


THROUGH  JAIL  TO  THE  GRAVE.     25! 

them ;  but  he  had  never  been  in  heau  one  of 
them.  And  now  that  he  had  been  blindly  led 
into  crime  against  the  home  that  had  sheltered 
Bess,  and  against  her  friend  old  Euclid,  who 
had  barely  escaped  with  his  life,  he  felt  as  if  he 
had  sunk  to  the  last  depth  of  infamy  and 
wickedness. 

It  was  little  Bess  herself  who  had  hindered 
him  from  making  his  escape.  Poor  little  Bess  ! 
how  desperately  she  had  clung  to  the  thief,  lest 
he  should  get  clear  off !  Dreams  of  it  visited 
him  in  his  prison-cell.  When  he  fell  asleep  he 
seemed  to  be  about  to  make  some  hairbreadth 
escape  into  freedom  and  a  better  life ;  but  at 
the  last  moment,  when  success  appeared  sure, 
Bess  would  snatch  him  back,  and  plunge  him 
again  into  his  gulf  of  dark  despair.  It  was 
always  Bess  who  held  him  fast  till  his  enemies 
—  sometimes  human,  sometimes  devilish  —  were 
upon  him.  And  then,  when  he  was  recaptured, 
and  she  saw  his  face,  who  it  was,  and  called 
him  by  his  name,  she  would  fall  down  at  his 
feet,  and  die ;  and  it  was  his  wickedness  that 
had  killed  her !  Such  dreams  is  these  terrified 
and  scared  him. 


252  IN    PRISON    AND    OUT. 

David  became  a  loathing  to  himself.  A 
thief  !  It  was  the  name  he  had  been  taught 
to  abhor  and  dread  from  his  infancy.  His 
mother's  simple  creed  had  been,  to  be  honest 
and  industrious,  and  to  take  all  that  happened 
to  her  as  being  the  will  of  God.  But  now  he 
was  himself  the  being  his  mother  had  most 
feared  and  hated.  It  was  as  if  some  tender- 
hearted man  had  found  himself  guilty  of  an  act 
of  savage  cruelty,  or  an  innocent,  guileless  girl 
had  plunged  unawares  into  an  abyss  of  infamy. 
David  had  become  the  thing  which  he  ab- 
horred :  he  was  an  abomination  to  himself. 
Two  years  would  soon  pass  away.  But  what 
after  that  ?  He  would  still  be  a  thief,  when  he 
was  released  from  jail,  and  the  ranks  of  honest 
men  would  be  more  firmly  closed  against  him 
than  ever.  If  he  could  have  his  choice,  he 
would  stay  within  the  shadow  of  the  prison- 
walls,  and  not  creep  forth  again  to  find  no  com- 
radeship except  with  thieves.  His  heart  failed 
him  to  think  of  having  no  fellowship  but  with 
such  men  as  Blackett.  He  knew  that  there  was 
not  a  chance  of  any  thing  better.  The  jail- 
brand  could  never  be  got  rid  of  in  this  life. 


THROUGH  JAIL  TO  THE  GRAVE.     253 

He  was  no  longer  classed  among  the  juvenile 
criminals.  He  worked  at  his  trade  among  the 
adult  prisoners  ;  but  he  held  no  manner  of  inter- 
course with  any  of  them.  The  work  he  did 
was  little — not  enough  to  keep  him  from  fre- 
quent punishment  ;  but  neither  encouragement 
nor  punishment  aroused  him  to  any  interest  in 
it.  He  was  never  heard  to  speak  in  answer  to 
praise  or  blame.  His  eyes  were  often  fixed  on 
the  floor,  as  if  he  was  lost  in  a  kind  of  dream. 
He  was  silent,  apathetic,  and  sullen.  What- 
ever was  going  on  around  him,  he  appeared 
deaf  and  blind  and  dumb.  Often  he  looked 
almost  imbecile. 

Now  and  then  a  darker  shadow  brooded  over 
his  face.  It  was  when  the  thought  crossed  his 
brain  of  how  easily  he  could  put  an  end  to  his 
misery,  if  he  were  but  standing  once  more  on 
the  brink  of  the  river.  He  could  fancy  he  saw 
its  rapid  current  hurrying  away  to  the  sea. 
Why  had  he  never  escaped  from  the  wretched- 
ness that  hemmed  him  in  by  this  swift  and  easy 
road  ?  Here,  in  jail,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
make  an  end  of  himself.  It  had  been  done  ; 
but  he  shrank  from  the  way  to  do  it.  If  he 


254  IN   PR.SON   AND   OUT. 

could  only  fling  himself  into  the  cool,  rapid 
river,  and  sink  in  it ! 

There  was  chapel  for  him,  and  daily  prayers, 
and  the  chaplain's  visits;  b«t  none  of  them 
brought  comfort  to  his  despair.  They  were 
part  of  the  machinery  of  the  criminal  court 
and  the  jail.  The  religion  was  that  of  the 
State,  which  had  first  neglected  him,  and  then 
drivon  him  into  the  gulf  which  had  swallowed 
him  up  body  and  soul.  If  that  religion  was 
for  any  upon  earth,  it  was  for  the  rich  and 
powerful,  not  for  the  poor  and  feeble  like  his 
mother,  and  the  erring  and  sinful  like  himself ! 
The  poor  were  pinned  down  to  suffering  and 
crime;  whilst  the  rich  were  fenced  in  from 
temptation  to  outward  sins,  and  set  in  high 
places  to  make  laws  and  enforce  them.  Such 
Christianity  was  no  gospel  to  David  Fell. 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night,  through 
long  weeks  and  months,  did  David's  heart  die 
within  him.  Very  slowly,  almost  impercepti- 
bly, his  physical  powers  failed  him  also.  His 
hand  lost  its  cunning,  and  his  sight  grew  dim. 
Wrapped  up  in  his  wretchedness,  he  made  no 
complaint,  and  asked  for  ao  favor.  His  body 


THROUGH  JAIL   TO   THE   GRAVE.  255 

filled  up  its  appointed  place,  sat  at  his  tench, 
crawled  to  and  fro  along  the  corridors,  crouched 
in  his  cell ;  but  he  hardly  felt  or  knew  what  he 
was  doing,  or  where  he  was.  He  was  the  mere 
shadow  of  a  man.  The  life  and  spirit  and  heart 
of  being  was  dying  out  of  him. 

There  was  only  one  thing  that  stirred  the 
flickering  life  within  him.  This  was  the  let- 
ters that  Bess  wrote  to  him,  always  loving  and 
cheerful,  promising  that  all  should  yet  be  well 
for  him  when  he  was  once  more  free.  She 
would  go  with  him  to  some  far-off  land,  she 
wrote,  and  they  would  begin  life  afresh  to- 
gether. But  David  would  shake  his  head 
mournfully  over  these  dear  promises.  Would 
it  not  indeed  spoil  her  life  if  he  let  her  leave 
old  Euclid  and  Mrs.  Linnett,  and  the  home  in 
which  she  was  so  happy  ?  That  could  never  be. 

One  Sunday  morning,  after  chapel,  he  found 
a  letter  in  his  cell.  He  had  been  twelve 
months  in  jail,  and  Bess  had  written  three 
times.  It  was  time  for  a  fourth  to  come,  and 
he  seized  it  as  eagerly  as  a  man  dying  of  thirst 
clutches  at  a  draught  of  cold  water.  But  this 
letter  was  not  from  Bess. 


IN    PRISON   AND    OUT. 


"  DEAR  DAVID,  —  I'm  a  seaman  now,  earning  good 
wages,  and  I've  saved  twenty  pounds;  and  Mr.  Dudley 
says,  if  I  get  on  well  in  learning  navigation,  I  shall  be  a 
mate  soon.  So  I've  asked  Bess  if  she'll  be  my  wife, 
O  David  !  nobody  knows  how  I  love  Bess.  I'm  thinking 
of  her  night  and  day  when  I'm  aboard,  and  when  ['m 
ashore  I  can't  bear  to  be  out  of  her  sight.  She's  prettier 
and  dearer  every  time  I  see  her.  But  she  says,  '  No  :  I 
belong  to  Davy.  He's  got  nobody  and  nothing,  save  me.' 
She  never  says  that  she  can't  love  me,  or  I'd  never  have 
wrote  to  you.  Now,  I  want  you  to  write  to  her,  and  tell 
her  you'd  like  her  to  marry  me  ;  and  you'll  have  a  brother 
as  well  as  a  sister.  It  would  be  better  for  you  if  I  mar- 
ried Bess,  instead  of  another  man,  because  I  couldn't 
never  be  ashamed  of  you,  as  father's  a  thief,  and  my  own 
two  brothers.  If  she  married  any  one  else,  he  might 
taunt  her  some  day,  and  I  couldn't.  Don't  stand  in  my 
way,  dear  old  Davy.  I'll  be  a  good  husband  to  Bess,  and 
a  good  brother  to  you  ;  and  I'm  earning  good  %vages  ; 
and  perhaps  I  may  rise  to  be  a  captain,  and  then  Bess 
shall  be  a  lady.  Only  write  to  her,  and  say  you'd  like  to 
have  me  for  a  brother,  and  you'll  never  repent  it  From 

your  loving  friend, 

"ROGER  BLACKETT." 

Dp.vid  sat  motionless  for  a  long  time,  crush 
ing  the  letter  tightly  in  his  feverish  hand. 
There  was  no  work  to  be  done,  and  he  had 
leisure  to  ponder  over  it  bitterly.  Roger  Black- 


THROUGH  JAIL   TO   THE   GRAVE.  25." 

elt !  How  well  he  could  remember  the  timid, 
browbeaten,  half-starved  lad,  who  lived  in  ter- 
ror of  his  savage  father1  —  a  poor,  idling,  weak, 
despised  boy,  held  cheap  by  all  the  other  boys 
in  the  street ;  the  son  of  a  notorious  scoundrel, 
whose  elder  sons  were  London  thieves.  And 
now,  after  being  trained  on  board  ship,  he  was 
a  seaman,  earning  good  wages,  and  looking 
forward  to  be  a  mate,  and  thinking  of  marry- 
ing,—  ay,  of  marrying  Bess!  Some  day  he 
mig.it  rise  to  be  the  master  of  a  vessel,  and 
be  called  Captain  Blackett;  whilst  he  —  David 
Fell  —  what  was  he  ? 

A  castaway,  a  housebreaker,  and  a  convict ! 

Roger  would  marry  little  Bess.  David  seemed 
to  see  it  in  a  dream,  —  Bess  in  a  house  of  her 
own,  pretty  and  loving  and  good,  with  little 
children  growing  up  about  her;  and  Roger 
comL'ig  home  from  his  voyage,  bringing  gifts 
from  foreign  places,  to  show  how  he  had 
thought  of  each  one  of  them  whilst  he  was 
far  away.  A  life  of  honest,  cheerful  toil  lay 
before  Roger,  with  gladsome  home  delights, 
such  as  make  this  earth  a  pleasant  world  to 
live  in.  He  seemed  to  sec  the  children's  faces, 


IN    PRISON   AND    OUT. 

and  hear  their  voices  ringing  in  his  ears.  AiJ 
that  for  Roger ;  but  what  for  him  ? 

Death  on  a  jail-bed  ! 

He  felt  it  for  a  certainty  as  he  crushed 
Roger's  letter  in  his  fingers.  The  passage 
through  jail  to  the  grave  had  not  been  a  long 
one ;  and  he  was  glad  of  it,  if  his  dreary  sense 
of  making  his  escape  out  of  an  evil  world  could 
be  called  gladness.  Death  was  very  near  at 
hand,  and  could  not  come  too  soon. 

The  next  day  his  warder  recommended  him 
to  go  into  the  hospital ;  and  he  went.  Thv 
medical  officer  could  not  say  what  ailed  him, 
or  under  what  name  to  catalogue  his  disease. 
There  was  no  column  in  his  report  for  hopeless- 
ness and  heart-sickness. 


OUT   OF   THE    PRISON-HOUSE.  259 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

OUT   OF   THE   PRISON-HOUSE. 

ROGER  never  received  an  answer  to  hi* 
letter  to  David.  But  a  few  days  after  it 
had  been  despatched,  and  after  Roger  was  gone 
again  to  sea,  there  came  an  official  permission 
to  old  Euclid  and  Bess  to  visit  the  prisoner. 
David  Fell  was  dying,  and  requested  to  see 
them  at  once.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost, 
if  they  wished  to  see  him  alive ;  and  they 
hastened  to  obey  the  summons,  scarcely  real- 
izing the  grief  that  had  come  upon  them. 

David  had  begged  to  be  taken  back  into  his 
own  cell,  where  there  was  quiet  and  loneliness, 
rather  than  to  lie  dying  in  the  midst  of  the  ras- 
cality of  a  prison-hospital.  A  softer  mattress 
and  pillow  had  been  laid  under  him  ;  but,  in 
every  other  respect,  the  bare,  whitewashed  cell 


26O  IN    PRISON    AND    OUT. 

remained  as  it  was  when  he  had  entered  it 
more  than  a  year  ago.  Through  the  closely 
barred  window,  high  up  against  the  ceiling, 
could  be  seen  only  a  patch  of  wintry  sky,  gray 
and  cold  with  clouds.  The  heavy  door,  with  its 
small  round  eyelet,  through  which  the  jailer 
could  at  any  time  watch  the  prisoner  unseen, 
closed  quietly  upon  Euclid  and  Bess  as  they 
entered  David's  cell,  and  stood  just  within  it 
as  if  afraid  of  stepping  forward  to  the  prison- 
bed. 

He  was  lying  with  his  eyelids  fast  closed, 
and  his  white  and  sunken  face  resting  so  still 
upon  his  pillow,  that  as  they  stood  there  hand 
in  hand,  hardly  daring  to  stir,  they  believed 
that  he  was  already  dead.  But,  when  Bess 
tremblingly  approached  him,  and  laid  her  warm 
hand  on  the  thin  skeleton  fingers  lying  on  the 
dark  rug  which  covered  him,  he  looked  up  at 
once  into  her  face,  with  no  light  or  smile  in  his 
eyes,  but  with  a  gaze  of  speechless  love  and 
sorrow. 

"Davy!"  she  cried,  sinking  dotvn  on  her 
knees,  and  laying  her  cheek  close  against  his 
upon  the  pillow,  "  Davy !  speak  to  me," 


O\JT   OF   THE   PRISON-HOUSE.  26 1 

"  Little  Bess,"  he  said,  "  and  Euclid !  " 

"Ay,  David !  "  answered  Euclid,  looking  down 
upon  him  in  unutterable  pity.  The  old  man's 
face  wore  an  air  of  peace  and  of  quiet  gladness, 
which  had  smoothed  away  its  former  gloom  and 
roughness ;  and  his  voice  fell  more  softly  on 
David's  ear  than  he  had  ever  heard  any  voice, 
except  his  mother's  and  little  Bess's.  He  turned 
his  dim  eyes  to  the  old  man's  face. 

"I'm  dyin',"  he  said,  "in  jail!" 

Euclid  only  nodded  silently,  whilst  Bess 
drew  his  chilly  hand  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  it 
tenderly. 

"  It's  been  a  cursed  life  for  me,"  he  groaned ; 
"but  it's  almost  over." 

"O  Davy!"  sobbed  Bess,  "if  you  get  well, 
and  only  live  to  come  out  o'  jail,  you  and  me'll 
go  away  to  some  country  a  long  way  off,  where 
you  can  live  honest  and  happy." 

"It's  best  as  it  is,"  he  said,  stroking  her  rosy 
face  fondly  with  his  thin  hand :  "  I  should  ha* 
spoiled  your  life,  little  Bess.  Roger'll  make  you 
a  good  husband,  and  care  more  for  you  when 
I'm  gone ;  and  you'll  think  of  me  sometimes. 
No,  no !  Hell  can't  be  worse  for  me  than  this 
world's  been." 


262  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

"Davy!  Davy!"  she  cried,  "you  don't  think 
you're  goin'  there ! " 

"There's  no  other  place  for  me,"  he  an« 
swered.  "Folks  don't  go  from  jail  to  heaven. 
I've  broke  God's  laws ;  and  they  say  he'll 
punish  us  worse  there  than  they've  punished 
us  here.  God  couldn't  set  me  free  to  go  to 
heaven." 

"But  you're  sorry,"  said  Bess,  weeping. 

"  Ah  !  I'm  sorry  I  hadn't  a  better  chance, 
like  Roger,"  he  muttered.  "  I  might  ha'  made 
a  good  man  ;  but  it's  too  late  now." 

"  God  knows  all  about  it,"  sobbed  Bess. 

"Ah!  and  God  can  forgive  you  yet,"  said 
Euclid.  "  Didn't  Jesus  forgive  the  thief  that 
was  dyin*  side  by  side  with  him  when  he  was 
bein'  crucified  ?  A  thief,  David !  Bess,  my 
dear,  you  read  ;t  out  to  us,  for  I  fear  I  might 
make  some  mistake  about  it." 

Still  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  with  David's 
cold  hand  clasped  in  her  own,  Bess  read,  in  a 
faltering,  sorrowful  voice,  these  words  :  — 

"And  there  were  also  two  others,  malefac- 
tors,  led  with  him  to  be  put  to  death. 

"And  when  they  were  come  to  the  place 


OUT  OF   THE   PRISON-HOUSE.  263 

vhich  is  called  Calvary,  there  they  crucified 
him,  and  the  malefactors,  one  on  the  right 
hand,  and  the  other  on  the  left. 

"  Then  said  Jesus,  Father,  forgive  them ;  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do. 

"And  one  of  the  malefactors  which  were 
hanged  railed  on  him,  saying,  If  thou  be  Christ, 
save  thyself  and  us. 

"But  the  other  answering  rebuked  him,  say. 
ing,  Dost  not  thou  fear  God,  seeing  thou  art  in 
the  same  condemnation  ? 

"And  we  indeed  justly;  for  we  receive  the 
due  reward  of  our  deeds :  but  this  man  hath 
done  nothing  amiss. 

"And  he  said  unto  Jesus,  Lord,  remember 
me  when  thou  comest  into  thy  kingdom. 

"  And  Jesus  said  unto  him,  Verily,  I  say  unto 
thee,  To-day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Para- 
dise." 

"That's  it!"  exclaimed  Euclid:  "the  male- 
factors  only  received  the  due  reward  of  their 
deeds ;  but  he  had  done  nothing  amiss.  They'd 
broke  the  laws,  and  were  bein'  crucified  for  it ; 
but  Jesus  was  bein'  crucified  with  them !  It 
seemed  ds  if  there  wasn't  any  other  place  for 


264  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

them  to  fall  into,  save  hell.  But  thert  was  a 
road  to  Paradise,  even  from  the  three  crosses 
on  Calvary ;  and  Jesus  was  goin'  up  that  shinin' 
road  himself.  They  might  both  have  gone  with 
him  to  Paradise ;  and  you  can  go  to  him  there 
from  jail,  David.  The  poor  thief  was  dyin' ; 
but  it  wasn't  too  late  to  ask  Jesus  to  remember 
him.  I  don't  say  as  you're  fit  to  go  to  heaven, 
David:  I  can't  say  any  thing  about  that  But 
that  poor  fellow  went  into  Paradise  with  our 
Lord  Jesus  himself.  That  must  be  a  place 
worth  goin.'  to.  He  says,  '  In  my  Father's 
house  there  are  many  places ; '  and  he'll  know 
where  you  are  fit  for." 

Euclid's  face  quivered  and  glowed  with  ear- 
nest entreaty,  and  his  husky  voice  seemed  to 
gain  a  softer  and  more  appealing  tone  as  he 
spoke.  David  fastened  his  dreary,  hopeless 
eyes  upon  him,  listening  as  one  listens  to  the 
distant,  far-off  sound,  which  foretells  that  help 
is  coming. 

"Jesus  himself  was  bein'  crucified  as  if  he'd 
broke  the  laws  as  well  as  them,"  said  Bess,  a 
light  shining  through  her  eyes.  "He  hadn't 
ever  done  any  sin ;  but  it's  like  as  if  he  said  to 


OUT   OF    THE    PRISON-HOUSE.  263 

himself,  'There's  poor  wicked  folks  as  will  be 
put  to  death  for  their  wickedness ;  and  maybe 
they'll  think  I  didn't  come  to  seek  for  them  and 
save  them,  as  well  as  the  rest,  if  I  don't  die  like 
them.'  He  must  have  meant  to  save  the  worst 
folks,  or  he  might  have  died  different,  not  as  if 
he'd  been  breaking  the  laws  himself.  I  never 
thought  that  of  him  before.  He  came  to  save 
thieves  and  murderers,  and  so  he  died  as  if  he'd 
been  one  of  them.  Davy,  you're  no  farther 
away  from  Paradise  than  the  poor  thief  was ! " 

The  faint  dawn  of  hope  in  David's  sunken 
eyes  was  growing  brighter,  as  if  the  sound  of 
help  was  coming  nearer  to  him ;  and  he  grasped 
the  hand  of  little  Bess  more  firmly  in  his 
trembling  fingers. 

"Ay!  there  must  be  room  for  you  there," 
said  old  Euclid.  "He'll  know  where  it's  best 
for  you  to  be;  and,  O  David  1  he  loves  you. 
Only  think  of  that !  Why,  Bess  and  me,  we'd 
have  found  a  place  for  you,  out  o*  love  and  piry, 
if  you'd  only  lived  to  come  out  o'  jail ;  and  his 
love's  a  hundred  times  more^  than  ours.  It 
stands  to  reason  as  his  love  is  a  hundred  times 
more  than  what  we  poor  creatures  have.  Only 


266  IN   PRISON  AND   OUT. 

you  think  about  him,  and  call  to  him.  If  you 
can't- say  nothing  else,  just  say,  'Lord,  remem- 
ber me,'  like  that  poor  fellow  on  the  cross  be- 
side him.  I  wish  I  knew  his  name ;  but  that 
don't  matter.  You'll  not  hear  Jesus  speakin', 
like  he  did ;  but  all  the  same  he'll  say,  '  To-day 
shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise.'  Bess,  my 
dear,  when  we  hear  as  David's  gone,  you  and 
me'll  say,  'To-day  he  is  with  Jesus  in  Para- 
dise.' It  seems  to  me  as  if  it  'ud  be  better  than 
comin'  out  o'  jail  into  the  streets  o'  London." 

The  tears  were  rolling  down  old  Euclid's 
withered  cheeks  as  David  gazed  up  at  him. 
The  boy  made  a  great  effort  to  speak ;  but  the 
words  faltered  on  his  tongue. 

"A  thousand  times  better  if  it's  true,"  he 
gasped. 

"  If  it  isn't  true,  there's  nothing  else  for  you 
or  me  of  any  good,"  answered  Euclid.  "We're 
worse  off  than  dogs.  If  there  isn't  any  God 
as  loves  us,  nor  any  Saviour  as  died  for  us,  this 
world's  a  cruel,  cursed  place." 

"  Oh,  its  true ! "  cried  Bess,  clasping  his 
hands  fondly  in  her  own.  "  I  love  you,  Davy  1 
and  God  loves  you ;  and  Jesus  died  on  the  cross 


OUT   OF   THE   PRISON-HOUSE.  267 

with  a  thief  beside  him.  He  wouldn't  ever 
have  done  it  if  he  didn't  love  us  all." 

But  the  time  allotted  to  them  had  expired, 
and  the  warder  warned  them  that  they  must 
go  in  a  few  minutes.  Bess  laid  her  bonny  face 
against  David's  dying  head  on  the  prison-pil- 
low, and  put  her  hand  upon  his  clammy  cheek. 
The  last  moments  were  flying  fast.  Yet  what 
more  could  they  say  to  one  another?  Would 
they  ever  see  one  another  again  ?  Was  all  the 
sorrowful  past  brought  to  this  end  at  last? 
Must  they  leave  each  other  here,  and  break 
forever  the  bonds  of  love  and  memory  which 
had  linked  their  lives  together  ? 

One  more  minute  only.  Euclid  laid  his  hand 
on  David's  chilly  forehead. 

"  Good-by !  God  bless  you  1 "  sobbed  the  old 
man. 

"  Good-by ! "  breathed  David  faintly.  "  I  didn't 
mean  to  be  a  thief.  Good-by,  little  Bess  ! " 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  his  once  more  in  a 
long  last  kiss.  Then  they  were  compelled  to 
leave  him.  The  night  was  falling,  and  the  light 
faded  away  slowly  in  the  solitary  cell.  The 
warder  came  in  to  light  the  gas;  but  David 


268  IN   PRISON   AND   OUT. 

asked  to  be  left  yet  a  little  longer  in  the  gather- 
ing dusk.  The  gray  of  the  wintry  sky  glim- 
mered palely  amid  the  surrounding  blackness 
as  the  jail-walls  vanished  from  his  dim  eyes,  and 
it  looked  the  only  way  of  escape  from  the  thick 
darkness  of  the  bare  cell.  He  was  alone.  Love 
had  been  forced  to  quit  him  before  life  did. 
There  was  no  hand  to  hold  his  as  long  as  the 
icy  fingers  could  feel  its  loving  grasp ;  no  voice 
to  whisper  words  of  hope  into  the  ear  growing 
deaf  to  earthly  sounds  ;  no  touch  on  the  cold 
damp  forehead,  telling  of  faithful  companionship 
down  to  the  very  threshold  of  death. 

Now  and  then  the  warder  glanced  through 
the  aperture  in  the  thick  door,  seeing,  in  the 
dim  twilight  shed  through  the  prison-window, 
that  the  prisoner  lay  still,  and  made  no  signs  of 
needing  help.  Who  among  them  could  help 
him  to  die  ?  The  chaplain  had  visited  him,  and 
his  friends  had  been  to  see  him :  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  done.  The  spirit,  in  all  its 
ignorance  and  sorrow,  bereft  of  human  love, 
was  slowly  preparing  to  wing  its  flight  into  the 
dark  and  drear  unknown.  Alone  and  in  prison 
David  Fell  was  casting  off  the  last  link  of  the 


OUT   OF   THE   PRISON-HOUSE.  269 

heavy  chain  of  grief  and  wrongs  and  crimes 
which  we  bound  about  the  boy  when  we  sent 
him  to  jail  (for  begging  for  his  mother). 

At  last  a  nurse  came  in  to  see  him.  The 
heart  still  beat  feebly,  though  the  gray  change 
that  is  the  forerunner  of  death  had  passed  over 
his  face.  She  stooped  down  over  him  ;  for  his 
lips  moved,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  speak 
into  some  listening  ear. 

"Lord,  remember  me  ! "  he  whispered. 

So  God  opened  the  prison-door,  and  set  ow 
prisoner  free. 


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